


Dragonholm

by Camelittle



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-21
Updated: 2014-03-21
Packaged: 2018-01-15 11:32:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 23,262
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1303381
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Camelittle/pseuds/Camelittle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Merlin's nervous enough about the ski instructor job; he really doesn't need the added stress of concealing the real purpose for his placement. He's a diligent sort of bloke, so he'll do his best. But he can't help thinking it'd all be a whole lot easier if he didn't have a rapidly escalating crush on his room mate. </p><p>Art by Fuckyeah (La_Temperanza)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dragonholm

**Author's Note:**

  * For [La_Temperanza](https://archiveofourown.org/users/La_Temperanza/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Let it Snow](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/41353) by FuckYeah (La Temperanza). 



> Written for FuckYeah (La Temperanza)'s AMAZING 2014 Reverse Big Bang art prompt [1019: Let it Snow](http://i.imgur.com/pxs6qRb.png). Please, please, please go to the [Art Masterlink](http://fuckyeah.livejournal.com/300949.html) and leave all your love for this utterly brilliant and gorgeous art! [It's been great working with you, hope RL gives you a break soon.]
> 
> Enormous thanks also to Chosenfire for hosting this wonderful fest. I’d also like to thank Waanderlust for being such a wonderfully supportive cheerleader, and of course the fantastic archaeologist_d for beta-ing for me and just being an all round saint in every way! THANK YOU.
> 
> Disclaimer: If I owned these characters, and was getting paid to write about them, then the whole BBC / Shine Merlin series would have been very different. Just sayin'.

When Merlin arrives at Dragonholm, his head’s so full of stern admonishments from his mother about the dire consequences of giving his secret away, that he steps off the bus straight into a large puddle of slush, overbalances and falls flat onto his arse. It’s not an auspicious start to his season.

A sweet-faced girl with a sympathetic smile reaches out to help haul him back to his feet, and he cranes his neck to see what damage has been done to his borrowed, slightly too loose, slightly too short waterproof over-trousers.

Not too much, although he can feel water seeping through the creases, soaking the bum of his thermal long-johns. Nevertheless, he’s relieved; it’d be too embarrassing to have to explain to Gwaine that he’s ruined his gear already, before even setting foot on the slopes.

This humiliation is nothing compared to the heavy bruising his ego suffers thanks to the poorly-concealed guffaws of the handsome, blond Adonis who lurks next to the bus, all designer snowboard gear and mocking laughter. Pegging him as a winter-season trust-funder, who’s no doubt only slumming it as a ski-instructor so that he can perfect his snowboarding tricks, Merlin breaks out in scowls on principle.

 

The git’s kit, which has tastefully-embroidered _Dragonholm_ dragons all over it, must have cost a fortune.

“Come on you,” says the girl, who seems sweet, and kind. “I’m Gwen.” She’s wearing a name-badge that confirms this statement.

“Merlin,” he says, widening his smile.

The prat at her side snorts derisively when he hears Merlin’s name.

“It’s a common enough name in Ealdor,” he says, defensively, riled at the guy’s attitude.

“And is it common in Ealdor for people to go round wearing tea-towels round their necks too?” says the prat.

The poshness of his voice reinforces Merlin’s prejudices. If he wasn’t bristling before, he is now.

“It’s a keffiyeh, you ignorant twat,” he says, clenching his fists in frustration. “They’re very practical garments, I’ll have you know.”

“Great for drying clean kitchen utensils, too, no doubt,” says the obnoxious git, with a smugly condescending expression on his face.

“It’s absolutely lovely to meet you, Merlin,” says Gwen, patting his shoulder. “Let’s go and get you cleaned up. Take no notice of Arthur. Honestly, he’s not really a complete prat, although he acts like one.”

The guy--Arthur--lets his mouth drops open as if to speak, but she doesn’t let him get a word in edgeways.

“Stop being such a pillock, Arthur, and make yourself useful for a change. Bring Merlin’s luggage, will you? I think he’s hurt his hand,” she says.

Merlin looks down at his hand and realises for the first time that he’s grazed it where he landed heavily.

“Injured already, Merlin,” drawls Arthur. “My, my. This does not bode well.”

“It’s just a scratch,” says Merlin, frowning.

Arthur’s like a large, blond cat, a lion maybe, proud, gleaming and golden in the Ealdorian sunshine, full of predatory growls and languid hidden power. If it wasn’t for the fact that he was obviously a complete and utter arse, Merlin would probably be drooling over him by now.

“So what are you going to be doing here in Dragonholm?” Gwen’s saying, while the gorgeous but annoying Arthur, to Merlin’s surprise, picks up Merlin’s heaviest bag, and, without further complaint, hefts it onto his shoulder. “I’m a ski host, and it’s brilliant actually, because I get to meet everyone and it’s such good fun...”

“Gwen is a ski host because she never stops talking,” says Arthur, in a purring voice that makes the hairs on Merlin’s arms stand up on end. “Whereas I am a snowboarding instructor, because I am brilliant at it.”

Sod it. Merlin’s drooling anyway. He groans inwardly. This is a complication he hasn’t foreseen. The development of heady attractions to arrogant co-workers was definitely bottom of the list of things he was hoping to achieve on this placement.

“I’m a downhill ski instructor,” he says. “I guess I’ll probably get lumbered with beginners, because I haven’t done this before. I suppose I’m here because...”

He trails off, wondering what to say, because his real purpose in coming to spend five months in Dragonholm is a big secret.

But there are many other good reasons for doing this. Plain curiosity is one. Putting as many miles as possible between himself and his mother while she works things out with her latest squeeze, yes, that too, because his mum is amazing, and she deserves this unexpected stab at happiness.

He’s suddenly aware that his thoughts have led him miles from here. Gwen’s still chattering away, when Merlin looks up, but Arthur’s looking sideways at him as if noticing his introspection.

“It’s all right. You don’t have to tell us if you don’t want to.” Arthur shrugs and grins wanly, and despite himself, Merlin feels a sudden pang of fellow-feeling.

Oh. Looks like Gwen’s right. The git’s got some hidden empathy deep down under those superficial layers of twattishness after all.

ooO8O8Ooo

Dragonholm is a small, chic, sought-after resort, high in the Ealdorian mountains. With its breathtaking views across the plains of Albion, the Dragonholm Grill is the most select high-end restaurant in the resort, and it also happens to be the location of their orientation morning. Merlin’s just thinking it’s possibly a bit too distracting having those amazing views to stare at during the presentations, when the drool-worthy Arthur compounds the problem by coming to sit next to him. Close up, Arthur's impossibly blue eyes set Merlin’s heart all-a-flutter, despite his own better judgment.  

Gwen comes to the front and starts to speak, without notes or audio-visual aids.

“Good morning, ladies and gentlemen. Oh, and Val.”

The audience chuckles. Looking round, Merlin spies a scowling face which must belong to the bloke in question.

“Welcome to Dragonholm. In a moment Leon will hand out your schedules for the next five months. But before we do that, he’s asked me to say a few words about Dragonholm.” She looks around the room and smiles, the light from the mountains behind her shrouding her hair like a halo.

“These misty mountains hold more than just black runs, moguls and half-pipes. They also symbolise ancient myths. Our guests are here, not only to experience the thrills and excitement of the excellent pistes, but also to imagine the scenes that took place in this ancient land in times of legend, when Ealdor was home to dragons and sorcerers, princesses and warriors, duels and battles.”

She pauses and her audience gazes at her, rapt. She has them in the palm of her hand. Merlin’s mum would love her, he thinks, making a mental note to introduce them when this is all over.

“Perhaps their ghosts still linger here. Perhaps, when you look out of the corner of your eye and glimpse something scuttling away, it’s a shy dragonling fleeing back to its cave in a swirl of magic.”

She scans the room, and her voice drops to a whisper. Merlin can still hear every word.

“Perhaps the mists that sometimes engulf the mountains are borne not of atmospheric systems, but of sorcery. Perhaps, round the corner of a ski-run, a knight errant is fighting to protect his king from an angry, vengeful sorceress, and the dragons have drawn a pall across dark deeds and derring do.”

An icy finger runs up his spine and he shivers, exchanging a rueful smile with Arthur, and enjoying the skilful way that Gwen is playing them all with her words.

Her voice returns to its original peppy and vivacious tone.

“This mythical backdrop is Dragonholm’s unique selling point. So, when you’re out with the punters, don’t forget to lay on the myth with a trowel!”

She grins at them, and Merlin feels compelled to clap. He can see why she is a ski host. She clearly adores making the punters happy.

Realising that he’s the only one clapping, he stops abruptly, and feeling eyes on him, looks round to see the person he assumes must be Val glaring at him with a ferocious intensity that he can’t fathom.

ooO8O8Ooo

He’s not sure what to think when he discovers who his chalet-mates - and more specifically his room-mate - will be for the next five months.

They’ve got a cosy, wood-lined chalet that smells of pine resin and polish. Pictures of mountains and daring skiers decorate the downstairs living space. Up the wooden stairs, a gallery leads to three bedrooms and a spacious shower room. The living area opens up to a sheltered deck, upon which resides a barbecue and a hot-tub, and which has panoramic views across the glistening, snow-tipped mountains and currently empty pistes.

He and Arthur are now getting ensconsed in one of the three bedrooms, while Gwen and her room-mate settle into another. Merlin doesn’t know who’s going to take the third room, and for a moment wonders whether he should swap, so that he doesn’t have to share with Arthur, who is, yes, undoubtedly gorgeous, but also probably straight, and definitely extremely irritating.

Sighing, he bends to unzip his suitcase. He can hear Gwen and someone else bustling around, checking out the contents of cupboards and chattering all the while.

“This is such a lovely chalet,” she’s saying. “The hot tub on the deck is brilliant for parties. Last year we didn’t have a hot tub - do you remember, Morgana? The oven was rubbish as well. Remember we tried to cook pizzas and gave up after about an hour? We had to go next door and ask to borrow their oven?”

Merlin feels, rather than hears, Arthur start to wheeze and huff. He sounds like he’s about to expire. Merlin turns and sees that Arthur is doubled over, arm wrapped protectively round his ribs.

“What’s the matter?” he says, head on one side, wondering if his room-mate is asthmatic.

“Gwen!” says Arthur in a conspiratorial whisper, flapping a hand about. When he looks up Merlin sees that it’s mirth, not pain, that is causing the convulsions, and good God, are those tears in Arthur’s eyes?  “She loved going next door last year; there was a very handsome bartender staying there. We didn’t see much of her for the whole of the rest of the season!”

He dissolves into more silent guffaws, and Merlin snorts, bursting out laughing. When the door opens and Gwen peers around it, they stop, suddenly, as if they’ve been caught doing something naughty.

“What are you laughing at?” she frowns at them.

“Nothing,” says Arthur.

Another girl appears in the door, with a tea-towel in her hand, and regards Arthur with an icy stare. This must be the “Morgana” that Gwen has been talking to.

“Don’t insult our intelligence, little brother,” she says. “And stop gossiping about poor Gwen. She can’t help it if she finds bartenders irresistible.”

She casts a curious glance in Merlin’s direction, and he steps forward to introduce himself.

“Hi! I’m Merlin.” He waves at her.

“Bad luck, Merlin, sharing with my little brother,” she says, with a haughty look. “I would tell you what happened to the last person who shared a room with Arthur, but then I’d have to shoot you.”

“Oh? What terrible fate did he suffer?”

“Fuck off, Morgana,” says Arthur in a threatening growl that grabs Merlin’s libido and shakes it forcefully. Chuckling, Morgana leaves the room.

Turning to hide his confusion, Merlin starts extracting clothes from his bag and chucking them into drawers.

“So, _Mer_ lin,” drawls Arthur. “What’s with all the chavvy second-hand clothes? You do realise that this is a high-end resort?”

Merlin can’t help flushing. Turning his head, he see amused eyes studying him.

“So? I’m a ski instructor, not a prostitute,” retorts Merlin, stung.

Admittedly his ski wear is a little bit on the shabby side, being largely composed of Gwaine’s cast-offs, but he thought that he would draw less attention to himself that way. Evidently he miscalculated.

“Anyway,” he continues casting about in his head, and finding some of his old friend Will’s class-war rhetoric, “anyone who uses the word ‘chav’ as an insult instantly reveals themselves to be a fucked-up public schoolboy with no appreciation of working class culture.”

Arthur’s sitting on the edge of his bed, legs splayed out in front of him, leaning back on his elbows. He’s wearing a t-shirt that displays his tight abs and pecs, and his legs are slightly apart, which draws Merlin’s eye inexorably towards the enticing humps and mounds that push out his jeans in all sorts of interesting ways, and he has to purse his lips together and swallow down his reaction.

Unphased by the barb, Arthur chuckles and regards him, nodding.

“I see. I understand.” He’s nodding and a sarcastic sneer drags up the cheek on one side of his face. “With a bloody chip on your shoulder that wide, it’s a miracle you can fit through doors. Look, Merlin, _mate_ , let me fill you in. I was in the army for many years. I have got a more finely-tuned understanding of working class culture than most of the ill-informed, bleeding heart liberals who infest our university system.”

“Are you suggesting that I’m ill-informed, you arrogant prick?” says Merlin.

Furious, and curiously turned on, he can feel his pulse rate increasing. He silently sends a prayer of apology to his poor sainted mother, who has specifically warned him against getting in a stupid fight with his colleagues, but this twat with his ignorance, his vile opinions, his ego and his buff snowboarder’s body would antagonise a saint.

“I notice you don’t deny the charge of bleeding-heart liberal,” smirks Arthur.

As Merlin watches, Arthur shifts his legs slightly further apart and, staring at the ceiling as if for inspiration, unselfconsciously adjusts what Merlin’s mother euphemistically refers to as his “wedding package”.

Merlin gulps, ripping his eyes away from this distracting sight, and forcing himself to look instead at Arthur’s face, but those flushed-pink, smirking lips and that chiseled, clean-shaven jaw do nothing to calm his arousal. He’s beginning to think that sharing a chalet with the other staff was a big mistake.  God, how’s he going to survive five months of _this_? Maybe Arthur’s previous room-mate died of extreme annoyance, or sexual frustration, or self-combusted in a flammable combination of both.

Serious-faced, Arthur stands, walks over and looks Merlin in the eye, encroaching on his personal space. Then his face cracks in a sweet smile which makes Merlin’s heart do flip flops.

“There’s something about you, Merlin!” Arthur says, shaking his head. When his gaze drops, Merlin hastily closes his mouth, suddenly aware that he’s been biting his bottom lip. “I can’t quite put my finger on it.”

Eyes soft, face seeming almost shy, Arthur just stands there for a long second, moving forward a fraction so that Merlin can smell tea on his breath, but then he seems to startle and moves away.

“I’ll be late in,” he calls as he strides through the door. “Might not be back at all, tonight. Don’t wait up for me.”

Sighing, Merlin reaches for his phone and puts through a call to Gwaine.

ooO8O8Ooo

To say that Merlin’s apprehensive when he wakes up for his first day as a ski instructor might be understating the case a little. This is unlike anything from his professional career to date, and although he’s been given plenty of tuition, he’s still a bit nervous about teaching the no-doubt irritating, spoilt offspring of privileged parents.

Plus there’s the whole room-mate thing to consider. He’d promised his mother that he’d do his best to get along with the other people he’s sharing a chalet with; perhaps he should cut Arthur a little bit of slack, and hold back on the sarcasm a little bit.

To his surprise, Arthur’s actually there when he wakes that morning. He’d expected Arthur to swagger in, first thing, boasting of his conquests, and sporting a rash of tell-tale bruises around his neck, but instead he sits up in his own bed, yawning and sleep-ruffled, hair rucked up on one side, face pink where it’s been buried in the pillow. Merlin’s glad that his duvet covers his morning erection.

“Morning, sleeping beauty,” Merlin says, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed. There, definitely more cheeky than sarcastic.

“If I’d wanted a room-mate who can’t shut up, I’d have shared with Val,” says Arthur, with a groan. “Make me a cup of tea, will you?”

“Were you born a selfish, entitled, rude arse, or have you been carefully nurturing your skills through the decades?” says Merlin. “Make your own bloody tea.”

He pads indignantly towards the shower, his bag of toiletries shielding his groin from view.

He turns in the doorway. “And next time, say please.”

Arthur just grunts, rubbing his face.

ooO8O8Ooo

Gwen’s in the kitchen with Morgana, frying bacon, and he can hear another male voice in there as well as he reaches out to push open the door. He stops on the threshold, only slightly surprised to see Val, the bloke Gwen teased in her speech yesterday. He’s wearing a t-shirt that’s slightly too tight and thermal long johns that sport a football club logo he doesn’t recognise.

“A’ righ’, mate?” says this vision of manliness now, all flat Northern vowels and bluff, matter-of-fact manners, while he looks Merlin up and down appraisingly. “Sleep OK did we? It’s chuffin’ ‘ot in this fuckin’ chalet. See you later girls. I’m off to guide a helicopter tour. Can’t keep the punters waiting now, can I? Don’t pine away, now.”

“Try not to set off any avalanches this year,” says Morgana. “There are avalanche warnings out over the southern side of the resort already today, and we’ve been warned off the cornices near Kilgarrah Peak.”

“Sod the fucking avalanche warnings,” says Val, shoving a piece of toast into his mouth and turning to leave. “I know what I’m doing. It’s far too early in the season for avalanches on Kilgarrah. Anyway, everyone knows that avalanches only happen in the afternoon. Bye, losers!”

He shoves past Merlin on his way out, nearly making him fall over.

“Bye Val!” says Gwen.

Rolling her eyes behind Val’s back and miming putting her fingers down her throat, Morgana doesn’t say anything, even when Gwen punches her half-heartedly on the arm.

“God,” says Morgana. “Why do we always end up sharing a chalet with that knob-end?”

“He’s all right,” says Gwen. “He’s all mouth and no trouser, that’s all.”

Morgana laughs, her entire face lighting up.

“That’s true,” she says, looking sweet and soft-eyed for a moment. Merlin isn’t fooled. He knows a formidable woman when he sees one. He has one for a mother, after all.

Her gaze settles on him, now, and he feels a bit like a mouse, pinned by the glare of a stalking cat.

“Ermm - I was just getting a cup of tea?” he’s even squeaking like a mouse, for God’s sake.

He could swear that Morgana is purring when she says. “Go ahead, Merlin. Please.”

He gives himself a mental shake, smiles and goes to make some tea for himself.

Thinking about it for a minute or two, and remembering what his mother said about getting along with his chalet mates, he takes down another mug and makes a cup for Arthur as well. _If Arthur ever meets mum_ , he thinks, _he’s going to have a lot to thank her for._

ooO8O8Ooo

His first morning has gone remarkably smoothly. Most of the kids have picked up the basics, and are happily snowploughing around for the ten minutes before their parents come to pick them up. No-one has broken a limb or been poked in the face with a sharp ski pole. An unfamiliar feeling of paternal pride settles on him while he watches them putting into practice the little tips he has taught them.

“Don’t be fooled. They all turn into demonspawn when put into contact with sugar,” hisses a voice in his ear, and he nearly jumps out of his skin.

“Morgana, you frightened the life out of me!” he says, heart pounding, hand on his chest.

She laughs, then, her mouth in a wide, upturned curve, and cheeks glowing under her red _Dragonholm_ helmet. She’s been out with a cross-country ski party, and she’s wearing long, thin Telemark skis, which have free heels so she can lift them for the turns.

“Are you nearly done yet?” She hefts a ski pole and points it towards the half-pipe where Arthur’s been teaching a set of intermediate snowboarders. “We could go and laugh at Arthur, try to get him to make a mistake.”

“Ten more minutes,” says Merlin, grinning.

ooO8O8Ooo

When they get to the half-pipes--Morgana, with skins on her cross-country skis, managing the uphill bits much more quickly than Merlin having to herringbone up them on downhill skis--the group are practising some basic tricks under Arthur’s expert tutelage.

As the last one of the group descends into what Merlin vaguely thinks of as a back-and-forth slither, but probably has an outlandish surf-dude name, an adolescent is talking animatedly to Arthur who is shaking his head.

He gathers the group together.

“Please, Arthur,” says the kid excitedly. “I can do it on a skateboard!”

“Not today,” says Arthur in a stern voice that brooks no argument. “When you’ve shown me you can do the basic manoeuvres safely, then we can think about trying out some new tricks. But I’m not fond of sending my students home on stretchers, and I don’t have enough money to get sued. So let’s stick with the program, please. This afternoon, I’d like to see you practising your ollies and nollies, but I don’t want anyone using this halfpipe for any air-to-fakies OK? Tomorrow, if I’m happy, and you can do a nollie without _rolling down the windows_ , we can start doing air-to-fakies and shifties.”

The mutinous-sounding agreements from the group were probably mostly put on, thought Merlin. Most of the kids looked relieved that they had an excuse not to do anything more complicated.

One of the kids - a sweet-faced girl with a pink helmet - pipes up, “Will you give us a display, sir?”

“Nah. Don’t think so, don’t feel like it,” says Arthur, teasingly, pulling off his gloves and pretending to examine his fingernails.

“Oh, please, sir, that would be brilliant!” says another kid.

“Nah. I don’t think you really want me to.”

“We do! Don’t we, everyone? Please, Arthur!”

“Well…” he sighs, melodramatically, sounding thoroughly put upon, but his tell-tale grin gives him away, “all right then. As you said please.”

It’s a shame Merlin can’t see Morgana’s eyes behind her sunvisor, because he’s pretty sure she’s rolling them like nobody’s business in the perfect mirror to his own. Nevertheless, Merlin’s heart’s in his mouth when Arthur launches himself off the side of the halfpipe, hurtling across to the other side, sliding back and forth to gain momentum, and then sweeping into the air. He seems to hover there for an instant, holding onto the rear of his board, before coming back down to land perfectly, swooping back towards them, grinning. Then he shoots off again, executing a perfect somersault in mid-air and riding back, slithering to a halt with a spray of sparkling snow at the bottom of the halfpipe near where they’re all standing.

The kids puncture the air with admiring shouts of “Sick!”, “Epic!”, “Wicked!”, and “Show us some more, Arthur, sir, please!”

“All right, calm down!” says Arthur, and miraculously they do. “Now, what I just did takes a lot of practice to work up to. I don’t want any of you trying to run before you can walk. But if you work on your safety, and your technique, I can teach you some pretty nifty tricks this week. All right? But remember this: snowboarding is fun, but you need to stay safe and get home in one piece, which is why we drill you on safety and etiquette. And if you impress me with your diligence and safe practice this afternoon, then I’ll show you some more of my tricks tomorrow. I’ll see you again this afternoon. Have a great day.”

As the teenagers all shuffle off, Merlin can’t help being impressed by how Arthur handles them.

“Show-off,” says Merlin, trying and failing not to respond to Arthur’s delighted grin when he sees he’s been watching.

“Yep,” says Arthur, unabashed. “That’s me.”

His face is mostly hidden behind helmet, scarf and visor, but Merlin can see that he’s flushed, smirking and breathing heavily from the exertion. His close-fitting _Dragonholm_ boarding trousers fit his rump snugly, and hint enticingly at the musculature that lurks beneath.

Merlin’s legs feel decidedly unsteady from drinking in this intoxicating visual cocktail on an empty stomach.

ooO8O8Ooo

“So how many seasons have you done here, then, Morgana?” says Merlin as the three of them ski down to the burger bar together.

“This is my third,” she says.

“You must like it a lot.”

“It’s a great job,” says Morgana, vaguely. “But I suppose that’s not the only reason why I’m here.”

“Oh?”

“No.” But she doesn’t elaborate until later, when she’s got a hot chocolate in front of her and Arthur’s up at the buffet bar, selecting dessert.

Merlin finds himself under intense scrutiny for a moment and then she sighs. “It’s Arthur,” she says simply. “He’s the reason why I’m here. You see, after he was invalided out of the army… well, let’s just say, he’s my only brother, and he’s been through a lot. He seems to be doing fine, but there are times when he needs support.” She stirs her hot chocolate thoughtfully, and spoons some of it between her lips. “You’re sharing a room with him, so you should probably know about the nightmares. You’ll find out soon enough. But he’ll kill me if he knows I’ve told you about them, so shhh.”

Her eyes dart nervously towards the buffet, and, looking up, Merlin spots Arthur strolling back to them with a heavily laden tray. A warm feeling suffuses his chest at the thought that Morgana’s entrusted him with Arthur’s hidden vulnerability, and he finds himself feeling inexplicably protective towards his room-mate.

“Mum’s the word,” he says, nodding sagely. “Don’t worry about that.”

“Thanks,” she whispers, her hand gently grasping his arm. “I have a feeling about you, a feeling that I can trust you, I don’t know why.”

“Trust me? I’m honoured. But I do have guilty secrets of my own, you know.”

“Really? Do tell!”

Merlin taps his nose.

“Nah,” he says. “What sort of secret-keeper would I be if I blurted them out to whoever asked me nicely?”

That’s when Morgana laughs out loud. Meanwhile, Arthur sets his tray down next to them and they settle into an unseemly three-way squabble about who gets the last two portions of tiramisu, and who gets lumbered with the fruit salad. It’s not an enormous surprise when Merlin loses the fight. To preserve his dignity, he claims that tiramisu is for losers and he prefers fruit salad anyway.

“So, what would you change about Dragonholm, if you could?” he says, changing the subject, spearing an out-of-season strawberry and waggling his fork vaguely at them.

Arthur frowns at him, but Morgana puts her head on one side.

“Not a lot, actually,” she says through a mouthful of tiramisu. “I think the ski-hosting and the tours are really great, and the punters like them. But we could probably make more of the “mythic” angle--my ski-tour this morning got really excited when we went past Aithusa’s Cave.”  

“What about for the staff?”

“Well--I love sharing a chalet with Gwen and Arthur, even Val’s not that bad even if he is a bit of a tosser and he farts a lot, there’s something curiously earthy about him.”

“What about you, Arthur?” says Merlin.

“Well, I have been thinking,” says Arthur.

“I thought I could hear cogs whirring,” says Merlin, automatically.

“Oh ha bloody ha!” says Arthur, swilling down his tiramisu with a large glass of fizzy water, and gazing out of the window.  “As I was saying before I was so rudely interrupted, I was thinking, you know that global economic forum thing they hold at Davos every year? G20 or whatever it’s called? Maybe Dragonholm should angle for that. It’d be great for the local economy. In fact, it’d be great for the whole of Albion, not just Ealdor.”

Merlin spits out sparkling mineral water all over his tray. “Are you mad?” It’s brilliant. Arthur is brilliant. Off the wall, out of the blue, shiningly, gloriously brilliant. Merlin smiles his most incredulous smile, and Arthur gapes at him for a moment as if stunned.

“Er...” Arthur looks down at his tiramisu, shovelling in another forkful. “No!” he says, an uncertain and defensive look creeping in around his eyes, as if no-one’s ever challenged his opinion before. “Well I think it’d be great, actually. It’d put Ealdor on the map, that’s for sure.”

Morgana’s looking at him through narrowed eyes. “Well, the Dragonholm Grill has a fabulous location, but they’d need to hire a better chef,” she says. “This one doesn’t know his fillet from his rump, and he tends to overcook everything.”

“Really? I’m a vegetarian so these distinctions are lost on me,” says Merlin.

“And they’d need to build a new conference suite for the hotel,” she carries on, “and I’m not sure there’s enough accommodation for all the security and media. But actually it’s not a completely stupid idea.”

“Thanks a bundle,” says Arthur.

“Any time.”

Merlin’s phone’s ringing, he can see Gwaine’s caller ID flash up as it buzzes on his tray. “I’d better take this. See you in a bit.” Grabbing the phone and ignoring their curious stares, he hobbles outside in his ill-fitting ski-boots, wincing a bit at the way that they rub his ankles, and presses the green “Call Accept” button.

A few minutes later, he’s just finishing the call when he notices a group of skiers swirling into the base of the resort near the foot of one of the black runs. They’re led by someone who isn’t wearing a helmet, and when he looks closely he realises it’s Val.

What? The idiot has gone off-piste without a helmet? He’s sure that’s against Dragonholm’s policy - he should know, he’s practically memorised it.

Two or three of the punters don’t have helmets either. Looking at his watch, Merlin has to restrain himself from strapping on his skis and giving Val a piece of his mind, because he’s got to get back to the nursery slopes for the afternoon’s class.

Wearily, he stomps back into the dining room to say goodbye to the others, noticing that a cluster of teenagers is pressing around their table, like bees around honey. As they speak to Arthur, adoration shines from their eyes like beacons, and one of them touches him on the shoulder, while another one sniggers behind her glove. Arthur doesn’t seem to mind; he’s shaking his head with a regretful air as another one asks him a question.

Merlin slides in next to Morgana, waggling his eyebrows and nodding towards the gaggle of giggling girls with a quizzical head gesture.

She shrugs. “It happens all the time,” she whispers. “You get used to it after a while. Gwen and I call them Arthur’s fannies.”

It’s Merlin’s turn to burst out laughing at that.

“He’s very patient with them. I think he’s trying to make up for…”

“For what?”

Morgana sighs and starts gathering the crockery together. “Never mind,” she says.

ooO8O8Ooo

That evening Merlin aches all over. He gratefully peels off all his skiwear, putting it in the drying room ready for the next day, and then pads across to the shower room, clad in a long towel. When he opens the door he realises a few things that he hadn’t noticed when he’d showered that morning, when he was half asleep. Firstly, there’s no lock. Secondly, the room also contains both a sauna and bath.

Thirdly, he discovers as he peers through the tiny window, the sauna is small, pine-lined, and thoroughly occupied.

Arthur’s in there, eyes closed, lying on a towel, stark bollock naked. His leg is bent up at the knee, which means that the family jewels are thankfully--or not, depending on your perspective--obscured.

If Merlin looks closely--not that he’s looking closely, of course not, he’s not a creep--Merlin can see that a livid scar stretches from the bottom of the knee to the top of a muscular, rosy, freckle-speckled thigh. Part of him wonders for a moment whether the scar is a token of the tough years Arthur spent in the army, but it’s a small part, because there are other parts of him that are clamouring for attention at the moment, one of which is growing rapidly.

Pulse roaring in his ears, Merlin swallows and backs away. It’s bad enough having to share a room with the most gorgeous specimen of manhood he’s ever seen, but this new development caps it all. He’s going to see him naked, every single fucking day, and it looks like there’s nowhere he can even go for a private wank.

That’s it. Five months of this and he’s going to explode. Literally.

That’s one improvement that needs to be made to the place, for sure. All these open plan bathrooms for the staff are a recipe for extreme sexual frustration.

He steps in the shower, lathers gel all over himself, stares down at his jutting cock, and thinks, fuck it. He turns his back on the unlockable glass door, closes his eyes and gives his prick an experimental tug, feasting on the mental vision of Arthur, stretched out, pink and vulnerable in the sauna, enticing blond hairs scattered across his thighs and broad, manly shoulders.

Oh yeah.

Biting his arm to keep quiet he gradually picks up speed. But he can’t stop the breathy grunt that escapes him when he comes, white streaks joining the froth that swirls and gurgles into the plughole.

Much refreshed, if a little shaky-legged, he steps out of the shower into the fluffy white towel that’s waiting for him outside, and then notices that Arthur is no longer in the sauna. He’s sitting in the bubbling hot tub, gazing at Merlin through heavy-lidded, predatory eyes.

“Feeling better, _Mer_ lin?” he says. “It’s lovely in here, you should join me.”

Gulping and backing away, Merlin can just about see through the steam that Arthur’s right arm is moving under the water, that it’s sliding rhythmically up and down, and he forces himself to rip  his attention away, thankful that he’s still relaxed and soft after his thoroughly satisfying wank, because otherwise his body would be betraying his lustful thoughts.

Even though it seems that Arthur has no such compunction.

“Er… yes? I mean, maybe later?” says Merlin, backing away until his bum hits the door, and, heart pounding, reaching for the handle.

Shit. It’s only his first day.

Arthur’s low chuckle rings in his ears for hours.

ooO8O8Ooo

He throws on an old t-shirt and some baggy old jeans, and pads, barefoot down to the living area where the girls are organising pasta, vodka shots and some kind of ridiculous board game. Val’s already well into the third or fourth shot, and the volume of his voice has increased almost to industrial levels.

“Here you go,” says Gwen, handing him a shot. “Bottoms up. Feeling a bit sore?”

“Yeah,” he says, sinking slowly onto the sofa.

He hadn’t thought he was doing much, but chasing all those kids around is tiring work. She reaches out to give his shoulder a sympathetic pat.

“I know,” she says. “We’ve all done our stint with the beginners. It’s amazing how something that small can go so fast, right?”

“Right!” He tosses the vodka back, wincing at the burn, and reaches out for another. “God, that’s perfect. Thanks Gwen!”

She laughs.

“You’re welcome. Just pop some cash in the kitty and we’ll get another one when this one runs out. It’s medicinal.”

“Too chuffin’ right,” says Val. “Pass the bottle, Gwen, love. I’ve got a right thirst on.”  

Merlin frowns, remembering the returning party without ski helmets, from earlier, and wondering whether he should do something about it. His mum will hold him personally responsible if there is any injury to a ski party while he is here. He can just imagine the disappointed look on her face. Screwing up courage to speak, he takes another sip of his vodka. Closing his eyes, he tosses the remainder back and reaches for a refill.

But Arthur beats him to it. By the time he looks up from his second vodka, Arthur’s down, still looking flushed and warm from his recent sauna and bath (and, thinks a tiny, gleeful part of Merlin that he wishes would shut up, his wank), glaring at Val.

“What?” says Val, frowning at Arthur. “What’s got your knickers in a twist, then, mate?”

“You,” says Arthur, pointing his finger for emphasis before accepting a full shot glass from Gwen. “Thanks Gwen... You’re an irresponsible twat, sometimes, Mellor.”

“What? Is this about the chuffin’ helmets again, Pendragon? Because it’s none of your chuffin’ business how I run my ski parties.”

“You should not be taking helicopter ski tours out without helmets!” says Arthur, voice calm but deadly. He tosses back the shot, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Look, Mellor, I’ve seen you do it before, and to be honest, you wanker, I don’t care whether you manage to kill yourself with your gung-ho attitude, but you have a duty to protect the punters, and I am not going to stand by and watch you take parties out without helmets. If it happens again, I’m going to report you.” In response to Merlin's enquiring eyebrow he accepts the proffered vodka bottle and tops up the vodka in his shot glass.

“Fuck off, Arthur. Chuffin’ ‘eck, you’ve turned into a right bloody nancy-boy poncy health and safety freak since you left the bloody army”

“I mean it, Val.” Arthur’s jaw is set and dangerous-looking. “And you would do well to remember that the armed forces have protocols and procedures, which have to be adhered to—”  

“I will as well,” says Merlin, quietly, wanting to support Arthur. “I’ll report you if I see you or any of your party out without helmets. It contravenes the resort regulations.”

“You?” Val lets out a startled guffaw. “You’ve only been here one day! I’ve got five years of mountain guiding experience, and I tell you now, this bloody helmet rule is ruining the experience for everybody. It’s bloody health and safety gone mad.”

“They said the same thing about motorcycle helmets,” says Merlin, “and yet when they introduced them the death rate from crashes dropped like a stone.”

“This is different!” says Val. He stands and pokes Merlin in the chest, eyes narrow and menacing. “You keep out of my life, you fucking poof.”

Merlin’s eyes widen. How does Val know? Or is he just using the word for random abuse?

“There’s no need for that sort of homophobic language, Val,” says Gwen. She’s frowning at him like a disappointed schoolteacher to a wayward pupil.

Val glares at her. “Fine,” he says. “Well, I’m going to the Avalon for some action. Not hanging around here with you lot of prissy girlies.”

He turns his back on them all and goes off to get his coat, then pauses at the door, looking directly at Merlin.

“As for you, pal, if I ever hear you’ve grassed me up, I’ll find you and slice your chuffin’ ‘nads off.

“Charming as always, Val,” purrs Arthur into his vodka.

ooO8O8Ooo

Sleep’s a long time coming, despite the vodka. Merlin’s thoughts are chaotic, jumbled, and he longs to just slide into oblivion, but visions of Arthur’s firm-looking pectorals jostle with memories of Val’s threatening outburst, and his eyes remain stubbornly open.

In the end it’s Arthur who cracks.

“Stop thinking so loudly,” he says, switching on the light. “You’re keeping me awake.”

“Sorry,” says Merlin. “I have to confess it’s been a very mixed day and I’m struggling to make sense of it all.”

Arthur snorts. “It’s all right,” he says after a while. “You should try being in the army. This has nothing on that.”

“Where did you serve?”

“Afghanistan. Helmand.” When Arthur doesn’t elaborate, Merlin props himself up on one elbow and looks across the room. Arthur’s looking straight at him. “It was aptly named,” says Arthur. “Hell indeed.”

Not knowing what to say, Merlin just nods.

Arthur sighs, and turns the light back off. There’s a shuffling noise, as the two of them settle back under the covers, and then Merlin hears his voice again.

“Merlin, can I ask you something?”

“You can ask. I can’t promise I’ll answer!”

Arthur laughs. “Fair enough. I just wondered--your face when Val yelled at you--forgive me but--are you gay?”

Merlin says nothing, but his long silence speaks volumes.

So does the juddering of his heart and the quickening of his breath when he hears Arthur whisper into the dark: “Me too.”

ooO8O8Ooo

“That’s funny,” says Merlin, frowning at the bare breakfast table.

“What’s funny?” says Val through a mouthful of cornflakes, his eyes narrow slits.

“Well, not so much funny as strange. I could have sworn I left my iPod here on the table last night,” says Merlin.

Val shrugs. “You must have left it somewhere,” he says.

Seeing a flash of something pass across Val’s face - disdain? Dislike? Triumph? Merlin suddenly finds himself shivering despite the warmth of the chalet’s fire.

He tells himself he’s imagining things, that he must have left it somewhere, that it’s no great loss, the music is all on his phone as well, but it’s the thought that someone in the chalet, one of his co-workers, one of the people he’s starting to think of as friends, might steal from him that makes him feel… almost violated. He stares at Val over the rim of his tea-cup and wonders.

ooO8O8Ooo

That night when he enters the kitchen to make himself a cup of tea, Gwen and Morgana have their heads together and are cackling like a very small coven of extremely good-looking witches. Startled, Merlin squeezes past them to the cupboard, wondering what has amused them so much.

“Don’t worry, Merlin,” says Gwen. “I promise we’re not up to anything.”

“I don’t!” says Morgana. “We’re definitely up to something.”

“Have you been at the vodka again?” says Merlin, smiling as he flicks the switch on the kettle. “Do I have to remind you about how you felt this morning?”

“Pfft,” says Morgana. “That was hours ago. Pass the bottle.”

“Anyway, why are you exchanging conspiratorial whispers in the kitchen like a pair of--of conspirators?” says Merlin.

Gwen laughs. “We’re planning a party,” she says. “My ski-host group has got a GORGEOUS bloke in it, and we’re trying to work out whether we can detach him from this horrible girl who has sucked up to him like some kind of female leechy thing. In his own best interests, of course.”

“And Gwen’s,” adds Morgana, and the two women go off into a long train of cackles again.

“I see,” says Merlin, nodding knowingly. “And when, and where, will this party take place?”

“Oh, here, of course,” says Gwen. “Changeover day is on Saturday. So if we have it tomorrow night, that still gives me potentially three whole days.”

“Three whole days for what?” says Merlin.

“Don’t be so dim,” says Morgana, pouring two fingers of vodka into her glass and leaning back on the kitchen counter. “Three whole days for Gwen to seduce the delicious Cenred, of course.”

“Morgana!” protests Gwen.

“I tell it how I see it, Gwen.” Putting her glass down and rummaging in the cupboard, Morgana brandishes something triumphantly. “Aha!”

“What on earth is that?” says Merlin. His kitchen skills are basic at best.

“Ice cube tray. We can make vodka jelly,” says Morgana.

“Oooh! We can have party games,” says Gwen, clasping her hands and jumping up and down.

“Yes!” Morgana claps and smiles at Gwen. “Or karaoke!”

“What about a talent contest?” says Merlin, and then he has to slap his hands over his ears to eliminate the high-pitched squealing noises.

“You can be Ella Fitzgerald!” he thinks that’s Morgana, shrieking. “Baggsy do your hair!”

“You can do your stand-up act!” he thinks that’s Gwen, screaming. “You’ll kill them dead!”

His phone buzzes in his pocket. Sliding it out, looking at the screen to see who’s there, he smiles. It’s Gwaine. Well, the layabout can make himself useful for a change.

“Gwaine? Hi!” he says. He gets up and goes out onto the deck amid sudden silence, feeling two pairs of curious, female eyes boring into his back as he goes.

They chat for a few minutes before he asks. “Oh, Gwaine, while we’re talking, can you do me a big favour?” he says.

“Of course, mate. My wish is your command. I am the genie of your phone. You’ve just got to rub me the right way.”

Although he knows Gwaine can’t see him rolling his eyes, he can tell by the chuckle at the end of the phone that Gwaine knows he’s doing it.

“Cheers, mate, thanks for the disturbing metaphor, but anyway. I need to find out about a member of staff called Val Mellor...”

ooO8O8Ooo

It’s the talent contest that he’s dreading the most, even though it was his idea, because they’re insisting that everyone in the chalet has to do a turn, including him.

“Me and my big mouth,” he groans.

Moreover, the dress code is “Jazz Age”, because Gwen’s a massive jazz and blues fan, and Merlin has nothing suitable to wear, which means that Arthur has fished out some kind of dinner jacket which is a bit too wide in the shoulders, but also a bit too short, so he looks totally ridiculous, especially with that bright purple cummerband and matching bow tie.

But Gwen is nothing short of a miracle, because she fusses around with safety pins, and with a few pinches and tucks manages to make him look moderately presentable. But he can’t sit down, or he’ll spear himself.

“Is this what women do all the time?” he says.

“All the time!” says Morgana. They’re in the room that she shares with Gwen, and additional safety pins have been brought out to deal with Gwen’s sequinned constume, because she’s going to sing an Ella Fitzgerald number. “There, Gwen. Just don’t breathe or eat too much. You look amazing.”

“I have to breathe, Morgana! Otherwise I won’t be able to sing a note. And remember, the heaving bosom is all part of the plan to snare the dreamy-eyed Cenred.”

“Good point.” Morgana inserts another five safety pins between her teeth and bustles around, making minute adjustments.

Merlin can’t help feeling a certain grudging admiration for the way that the two women plot Cenred’s downfall. The oblivious Cenred will be toast. Merlin’s not encountered the elaborate planning that goes into a woman’s seduction of a man before. Life’s much simpler for gay blokes; you fancy each other, you cop off, job done.

Of course, Gwaine chooses that moment to ring, so Merlin has to step outside the chalet into the slush with his shiny shoes on. They talk for longer than Merlin expected, because Val’s got quite the history, and what with one thing or another, Merlin ends up getting his trousers and socks soaking wet.

When he comes back in, the girls take one look at him, whisk him back up to their room, sit him down, and commence the interrogation while they dry him off with a hairdryer.

“So,” says Morgana, pointing at his pocket. “This Gwaine person. Your boyfriend?”

Merlin’s mind goes blank. Petrified, he gapes at them.

“You are gay, aren’t you?” says Gwen. “I saw the lube in your room. Most straight guys don’t think of lube.”

His gaze snaps to her. “Ermmm?”

“Will we get to meet this Gwaine? Is he planning on coming to visit you?” says Morgana.

It’s like watching tennis, the way they make his head swivel back and forth between them.

“I’m…” He moistens his lips.

“You speak to him every day. We have noticed,” says Gwen.

Bloody hell. They should be employed by MI5.

He runs a trembling finger under his collar. “He’s…”

“Does this mean you’re off limits? Or do you have an open relationship? But if you’re off limits, why have you brought lube?” says Morgana.

“Why do you… am I… is it… erm?”

“Handsome boy like you, I’m sure they’re queuing up!” says Gwen.

Morgana leans forward and pats his cheek. “Of course, it’s really none of our business, Merlin.”

You’re right, he wants to say, but she won’t let him get a word in edgeways.

“But if you’re interested, I think there might be options, here in Dragonholm. Maybe even here in this chalet.” Her luminous green eyes drill into him. “I think you know what I mean.”

And Merlin does know what she means; he’s not blind.

Thankfully, when he seems unable to string a full sentence together, they don’t press him further.

But it’s not like he doesn’t notice when, a few minutes later as he comes down the stairs, Arthur’s eyes are boring into him from afar or, when Arthur, dressed to kill, like 007, smiles sweetly as he hands Merlin a drink, deliberately letting their fingers touch, eyes lingering on Merlin’s lips.

And Merlin longs to do something about this, because Arthur, with his finely-tuned sarcastic turn of phrase that turns Merlin’s legs to jelly, with his arrogance and penetrating wit, his easy charm, his disarming courage and hidden vulnerability, with his golden thatch and golden skin and golden, freckly thighs, is pretty much everything he’s ever wanted, a posh, red Dragonholm bow tie round his neck like ribbon, inviting him to unwrap the delicious treat hidden inside.

But he can’t.

It wouldn’t be fair on Arthur to lie, and being honest would expose his secret to too much scrutiny.

So he gulps and tries not to stare at Arthur’s pink, arrogant lips, which are quirking up in a seductive smile that makes Merlin blush.

ooO8O8Ooo

When their first guest arrives, Val pops open a bottle of vodka and they set about the important task of getting absolutely sloshed. The hot tub’s on, the living space is strewn with cushions, and Gwen has created a makeshift stage at the front. The music is all 20th century jazz and blues: Billie Holliday, Louis Armstrong, Etta James and Nina Simone. The guests, who have dressed accordingly, start to filter in - most of them from Gwen’s ski-host group, but one or two from Val’s helicopter tours. Thankfully _Arthur’s fannies_ are not invited; Merlin isn’t sure he could cope with the shrillness or volume of giggling that would entail.

Merlin’s the first on stage for the talent contest, and he gets some dumbfounded looks when he does his favourite tricks. Merlin actually prefers doing card tricks as he mingles, because it means he doesn’t have to make polite conversation, which is a relief, because when several of the guests make a bee-line for Arthur, it awakens in him a curious and unsettling possessiveness.

“I am Emrys the Enchanter,” Merlin says, with a melodramatic bow at a tall, glowering man who he thinks might be Cenred. “Allow me to show you my magick. Here, sire, you have something in an uncomfortable place.” The look on their faces when Merlin extracts a packet of condoms from their armpit or behind their ear never fails to raise a laugh - although Cenred’s scowl deepens. He can’t think what Gwen sees in him.  

When Gwen comes on stage, though, Cenred’s eyes are popping out on stalks. She does look fabulous, and she has a brilliant voice. She sings “Making Whoopee” with such verve that Cenred looks like he’s swallowed one of the condoms.

Groaning, Merlin joins the crowd in throwing popcorn at Val’s rendition of “God Save the Queen” executed in armpit farts.

“Awww,” he can hear Gwen say. “Don’t be mean. I think it’s really sweet.”

And then Arthur comes to the front. He signals to Morgana, and the lights go off, plunging the room into darkness. Arthur lights a single match, putting it to a candle in front of him, so that the stark lines of his jaw and cheekbones are silhouetted in its light, and it throws deep shadows onto the hollows of his eyes. Silently, he puts a finger to his lips and the room quietens. A rattle of the wind against the window adds to the atmosphere. By the time that Arthur starts to speak, voice low and doom-laden, he has the full attention of everyone in the room.

“Gather round,” he intones. “I come to tell a tale, of dragonish tails, of jealousy, squandered treasure, and vengeance. A fairy fable of fire and ice. Of dark deeds and vanquished monsters in the distant past, here, in the mythical Ealdorian mountains. Who knows, perhaps even Aithusa herself nested in this valley, maybe your feet have trodden the ways where she fought her lonely battle with the great black drake, Kilgarrah. Who knows, perhaps her treasure lurks here, forgotten, deep within the walls of this very mountain. Maybe Kilgarrah slumbers here still, nostrils steaming, unheeded by us mortals as we hurtle past him in our haste.”

The way that Merlin’s heart races is only partly to do with the story, which is familiar enough. A much greater part of it is to do with that deep, purring voice that prowls around him like a dangerous, stalking cat, and drags a cold claw up his spine, making it tingle and arch.

“For Aithusa was but a dragonling, untried and impetuous, ferocious and fiery of temperament. But Kilgarrah was a wily and wilful worm, his claws tarnished by time, his wits clear and sharp as a glass shard.”

“The mighty magician, Merlin, was then but a boy himself, no match for the fearsome firedrake. Kilgarrah, ever jealous of his treasure, clashed with Merlin’s beloved Aithusa, cut her and slashed her with his single remaining tooth, slicing her tail off so that she could only hop, and could no longer fly.”

“‘Begone foul worm,’ cried mighty Merlin under tattered robes, heartbroken and wrathful. ‘If thou must have the treasure, then shall it be thy only comfort, and thy doom.’

“And so Merlin cursed the ancient and vengeful creature, Kilgarrah, sealing him forever under the mountain with a word. And so did he heal his beloved Aithusa with his hands and his love. But she never did fly after that; instead he schooled her with planks and poles, and she learned to ski, balancing with her delicate claws splayed, wings outstretched. And so we do, in remembrance of her, in these brittle, snow-stained mountains. And so we do.”

Lips compressing to a ring, with a single huff, Arthur blows out the candle, plunging the room back into darkness.

Everyone in the room is silent, rapt, and Merlin wishes his mum was here to see, because *this*, this man, right here, this is Dragonholm’s treasure.

And then Morgana switches the light back on the room erupts in a storm of clapping, cheering, stomping and shouts of “more!” Grinning, Arthur steps down from the makeshift stage towards a beaming Merlin, who can’t help himself; he thinks his face might crack, he’s smiling so much.

“Did you like it?” says Arthur, shyly.

“Like it? Bloody hell, Arthur. I wish I could wrap it up and open it on every Christmas day for the rest of my life. It was brilliant. You are brilliant.”

Arthur’s smile is like the sun creeping out from around a cloud to bathe the grateful world in warmth and light, and his hand grasps Merlin’s shoulder, squeezing it gently.

“Thank you,” he says softly, and Merlin, breath stuttering, wishes he could keep that delight there on Arthur’s face forever.

When he sees Gwen finally corner Cenred, the target of her plotting, slide gracious arms round his neck, and start toying with his bow tie, he smiles wryly, turning away and thinking for a moment that the evening has been rather a success. But then he spots Morgana, standing alone in a corner, the way her smile seems to slip when she thinks no-one’s looking, the way her eyes follow Gwen round the room. Suddenly, understanding something that’s been staring him in the face for days, he feels an enormous sympathy swell in his heart.

Later, when he hears Arthur slip into bed, Merlin forces his breathing to sound slow as if he’s asleep.

Eventually he slips into a restless sleep, his dreams haunted by slumbering dragons who make the mountain quiver and shake with their snores.

ooO8O8Ooo

That night, Arthur has a nightmare.

Merlin wakes to an unfamiliar sound, a terrified moaning and a keening sort of cry, full of anguish and pain that makes his heart thump. It dulls to a gasp, and then there’s a rustle, and a thud, the sound of someone getting out of bed and padding towards him.

To his astonishment, his covers are slid aside for a moment and a hot, trembling figure slips into the bed besides him.

His body judders from head to toe, and he whimpers, sounding desperate and so, so young, as he buries his face in Merlin’s shoulder, making it damp with tears. Overwhelmed with an protectiveness, Merlin wraps Arthur up in his skinny arms and breathes kisses into his hair, whispering “shhh” and stroking his broad shoulders, until Arthur’s shaking starts to slow, and his breathing evens out.

“Shhh,” says Merlin again, remembering the livid scar on Arthur’s flank. “It’s all right. I’ve got you. Shhh.”

In the morning, when he wakes and Arthur is gone, his bed made up and his clothes neatly folded on his bedside chair, he’s bereft, as if he is a child who has been given something beautiful, and then someone has snatched it away and told him it could never be his.

He sits eating his muesli with his head in one hand and trying to make sense of his confusion. Morgana comes into the kitchen and he looks up, regarding her with bleary eyes.

She puts warm a hand on his shoulder. “All right?” she says.

He swallows a mouthful of muesli, although he’s not that hungry, and shakes his head.

“The guy who shared a room with Arthur last time - what happened to him?” he says, stirring his cereal with his spoon.

Morgana sighs. “Arthur had a nightmare I suppose. I woke up to hear shouting. The guy thumped Arthur and then left the resort.”

Merlin looks down at his muesli, eyes pricking. “Poor Arthur. I would never do that,” he whispers, dropping his spoon and covering his eyes with his hand.

“I know,” says Morgana, squeezing his shoulder. “Thank you. I know, love.”

ooO8O8Ooo

On their rest days, Arthur teaches Merlin how to snowboard.

He’s never done this before, although of course he’s a reasonable enough skier, and it feels… odd, at first anyway. Odd not to be able to change the distance between his legs.

At first he keeps ending up on his arse, which Arthur finds hilarious.

“It’s all very well for prats who are good at everything,” says Merlin, stung, by a particularly loud guffaw, “but some of us have to work on things for a while.” He picks himself up, digging his board into the snow, and promptly falls flat on his arse again, much to Arthur’s amusement. “I hope you don’t laugh at your teenagers like this,” says Merlin, spitting snow out as he fumbles back to his feet again.

“No, _Mer_ lin, I don’t, because unlike you, they can stand up for seconds at a time.”

It’s an absolutely gorgeous day. There’s been fresh snow overnight, and when Merlin woke up he felt a sudden urge to get the lift up to the highest black run and swoop down it on powder. But he assumes there’ll be time enough for that later in their stay, and he’s secretly been looking forward to spending the day with Arthur. Since the night of Arthur’s nightmare the strange tension between them has relaxed slightly to a comfortable, teasing banter, and he’s enjoying Arthur’s company far more than he’d ever expected.

For the first half an hour or so, he is beginning to doubt his sanity. It’s really totally different from skiing, and he’s fed up with being laughed at. But a couple of hours later he’s up at the top of a green run, ready to try out some new skills. He doesn’t know how Arthur manages those nifty tricks and flips with his board, but he’s got five months to find out, and it’s exhilarating, learning a new skill with a talented teacher.

In fact, it’s bloody brilliant spending time with Arthur.

At the bottom of the run, he ends up flat on his back in a snowdrift, breathless and panting, aching with laughter, cheeks stinging from the cold. Arthur hurtles towards him, appearing completely out of control, mouth splitting his face in two, whooping, and dives on top of him. They lie there giggling like teenagers for a moment, and Merlin can feel Arthur’s gloved hands rummaging under his ski jacket.

“Stop! It tickles,” he chokes out, wriggling and squirming under Arthur’s touch.

“Of course it tickles, you goofy-footed newbie.” But Arthur stops, rolling off and he’s a tiny bit disappointed, so he scoops up some fresh snow and thrusts it down inside Arthur’s jacket, bursting into manic giggles when Arthur bellows and kicks away his board so he can get down to a serious attack. He howls with the sudden intense cold when Arthur’s firm hand presses snow down his neck.

“I’ll bloody get you for that. Some teacher you are!” says Merlin, delving into the drift for more ammunition.

Unable to see Arthur’s eyes behind his goggles, he can’t work out if there’s a manic and predatory gleam there to match his own, but he is willing to bet that there is. He really should not be doing this, his mother would kill him if she knew he was flirting with one of his co-workers, but Arthur with his playfulness and his vulnerability and his chiselled bloody jaw is just too much for him to resist.

He gives in to temptation and, hooting with laughter, deposits a handful of snow inside Arthur’s snowboarding trousers.

“Right, that’s it,” says Arthur. “Gloves are off.” He tugs his glove off with his teeth and tickles Merlin mercilessly until he begs him to stop.

ooO8O8Ooo

“What happened to you, in Helmand?” he says. Snow has started to fall, and they're chuggalugging mugs full of the hot gluwein that they brought along with them in a thermos flask, while their hands thaw out. “If you don’t mind me asking.”

Pulling a face, Arthur looks up at him, a flash of vivid blue on white. He supposes most people don’t ask the direct question, most people fudge around it.

He can see Arthur’s throat clench as he swallows.

“Suicide bomber. Blew herself to smithereens. Wiped out half my team. Wiped out a bunch of other innocent people. Left me for dead.” Arthur’s eyes drift away, as if remembering. “Always wondered what I could have done to stop her.”

Taking a sip of his drink to stop his throat aching, Merlin replies “Probably nothing.”

Arthur huffs out a mirthless chuckle. “Probably. She was looking right at me. I could see her. She was about twenty metres away from me. People were milling about all round her.”

Merlin wants to reach out and touch Arthur’s hand, to murmur soothing platitudes, but he wills himself to keep quiet, cupping his mug in his hands instead.

“All I could see were her eyes, the rest of her was covered. She looked so young, Merlin. She was tiny, she can’t have been more than twelve or thirteen. But her eyes looked dead.” All about them is a clatter and hum of holidaymakers enjoying themselves in the snow; they are in a bubble of quiet, eyes locked in intent communion as Arthur carries on speaking in matter-of-fact tones that obscure and then somehow underline the gravity of his words. “Everyone else, they all seemed alive and purposeful, but she stood still and looked hopeless, like she’d seen too much.”

Merlin doesn’t know what to say. _You have seen too much,_ he thinks.

“Suddenly I thought… I…  I knew what she was going to do. I should have shot her, then.” Arthur’s still looking at Merlin. “I couldn’t do it. Would you have been able to do it?”

Merlin doesn’t know. He shakes his head, dumbly.

“I shouted out, pleading with her, yelling ‘no, no’, but she couldn’t understand me, and I couldn’t speak any Pashtun. I held out my hand towards her, and her eyes looked so old for a moment. I started to step in her direction, and then the world went white and red.”

He smiles wanly at Merlin. “No use crying about it now,” he says, and Merlin could weep for him, he really could, but he blinks instead.

“Is she what you dream about? You know, when you… when you have nightmares.”

Again Arthur seems taken aback, as if no-one’s dared to ask him before.

“She comes to me sometimes, yes. It’s like she’s reminding me that I failed.” He shrugs.

“It’s not your fault, Arthur,” says Merlin softly, heart aching for the girl, for the man who saw how she felt and couldn’t help, couldn’t protect people like he thought he should.

Arthur’s hand hovers over his shoulder and comes to rest, warm and solid.

“Thank you,” he says. “Anyway--what brings you here? You don’t seem like the usual ski-instructor type. Most of us are ex army.”

Merlin knows he’s changing the subject, but it’s all right. He shrugs, wishing that the gluwein wasn’t so potent, now that he’s having to feel his way round such a delicate subject.

“Well - I have a desk job but I thought it would be good to get away for a few months because, well, not to put too fine a point on it, my mum has a new boyfriend, and I feel a bit like a third wheel at home at the moment.”

It’s nowhere near the whole truth, of course, but he hasn’t actually lied. Regret lashes him nevertheless, constricting his throat, because Arthur has been so honest with him, baring intimate details of his experiences, but Merlin, Merlin is hiding things, he’s staying in the shadows _because he has to_.

Arthur’s eyes narrow, and he purses his lips, as if he realises that Merlin’s concealing something, but thankfully he doesn’t pursue the subject. Letting a sigh of relief escape him, Merlin makes a quip about Arthur’s favourite football team, Arthur responds with a jibe about Merlin’s dress sense, and the conversation turns to safer topics.

Later, when _Arthur’s fannies_ come crowding round him with their cow eyes and their soft laughter, he thinks he understands now why he’s so patient and kind with them, and it makes him want to wrap Arthur up in soft down, and save him from all the hurt.

Maybe it’s the gluwein, maybe it’s his growing attraction to Arthur, or maybe it’s just the deep feeling that he can trust him, but whatever the reason, he finds himself changing his mind about keeping his secrets.

“Arthur,” he says, pressing his hand to Arthur’s back. “There’s something you should know. About me. I want to tell you.”

Arthur turns to him, laughing, swallowing down another shot. “Not now, Merlin,” he says. “We all have our secrets. I can see you don’t want to tell me yours. I was in the army. I know what that’s like. I don’t think you’re going to murder me in your sleep, so don’t sweat it. Okay?”

Merlin nods, swallowing, but he knows it’s not okay.

ooO8O8Ooo

It seems to happen when Arthur’s been drinking.

That night, when there’s a quiet, anguished sound from the other side of the room, Merlin’s almost expecting it. And this time it’s him that pads across the room, slips under Arthur’ duvet and enfolds Arthur in protective arms, brushing lips across Arthur’s warm back and whispering soft words of comfort until the judders and tremors still.

This time he’s still there in the morning when Arthur wakes and turns into his embrace, when Arthur’s mouth, hot and insistent, ghosts across his and thrills him with its soft moistness, its warmth and intensity.

Although he knows he should leave, he’s taking advantage, this is forbidden and wrong, still he can’t, because he wants this more than anything he’s ever wanted. He feels it from the tips of his toes to the roots of his hair, and the urgent press of Arthur’s erection against his thigh tells him that Arthur wants it too.

Groaning, he slides his hand down Arthur’s scarred flank, naked and uneven under his fascinated fingers, tracing its dips and swells until Arthur’s skin shivers and squirms under his touch.

“Merlin,” Arthur whispers. “Merlin, please, I…”

“Shhhhh,” says Merlin, quietly, fingers whispering past Arthur’s hip bone, towards the soft line of his navel hair, breathing in the musty, musky scent of Arthur’s arousal. “Let me take care of you, Arthur. I want to. I want to.” His hand gently works at the waistband of Arthur’s boxers, pushing them past the gentle, inviting contours of his arse.

“Yes,” says Arthur, his breath harsh and his voice cracking like the daylight breaking and filtering through the window panes. “Please, Merlin. Oh God. Yes.”

The act of curling his fingers round Arthur’s warm, heavy cock, feeling it fatten and swell in his hand, is enough to make them both groan and move in closer, mouths panting and searching. With a subtle twist and slide, Merlin starts to stroke, coaxing light grunts from Arthur’s parted lips that make his belly clench.

“I can make you feel good, if you’ll let me,” says Merlin. He can’t see what Arthur’s reaction is, it’s too dark, but he can feel Arthur’s fingers press firmly against his shoulders, pulling him in closer, and he can hear the soft gasp that escapes Arthur as he works his way down the bed so that his closed mouth is rubbing against the heft of Arthur’s firm cock.

“Merlin, please, yes. God, your lips.”

Throwing off the covers, Merlin’s eyes drink Arthur in greedily. The wan dawn light that filters through the curtains is too faint to pick out the subtleties of colour; Arthur’s like a black-and-white painting or a sculpture of a Greek god, the finely moulded contours of his muscles softened slightly by the pale pink dawn light. Merlin worships at this altar with his tongue and his teeth, relishing the texture of Arthur’s soft sac against his lips, and then sliding the full lap of his tongue from root to tip, before slipping the gloriously smooth, hot glans into his mouth. Slowly he slithers his sensitive tongue around it, laving its delicate valleys and clefts, swirling round the jeweled bead at its tip. And then without warning he plunges down, swallowing Arthur in so that his inarticulate whimper makes Merlin’s toes curl in sympathy.

For a moment all Merlin can hear is the pounding of his pulse, pumping in his ear, before he releases Arthur, gasping, teasing with his lips and tongue while he gets his breath back..

“Fuck, Merlin,” says Arthur in a low, broken voice, so needy, that Merlin’s feels a great fiery ball of want pooling behind his navel, expanding and threatening to overwhelm him with its intensity. “Fuck. Your mouth, Merlin. Your mouth. Feels so good.”

There’s an insistent pressure on his head; firm hands kneading his scalp, confirming that Arthur wants this, he _wants_ it. Gratefully, wordlessly, Merlin sinks back down and takes Arthur back in again and again, steadying one hand against Arthur’s tensing, muscular thigh. He has a free hand which he uses to work his own pyjamas down, bunching them on his hips, and massage his aching prick as he works his tongue against Arthur’s cockhead. Arthur’s breathing quickens and his hips start to roll in time with Merlin’s rhythm.

“Merlin,” Arthur’s whisper is urgent, a warning. “Merlin! I’m going to… You’ve got to...” But humming, Merlin just suckles and bobs, until bitter, hot fluid floods his mouth and all the tension leaves Arthur’s body.

Arthur’s hands are still in his hair when Merlin draws himself up to his knees and, head down, watches his own hand work furiously at his jutting cock, and, sighing, pulses in thick spurts across Arthur’s naked, panting chest, until his vision goes blank and his ears sing with the sound of his juddering heart.

He flops down and sinks his head into the crook of Arthur’s neck, cocooned in heat, in strong, heavy arms, and drowses, one sticky finger idly tracing Arthur’s scar.

He can’t bear to think this might be a one off, because his heart has swollen to twice its normal size, and he thinks Arthur might be taking up permanent residence there.

ooO8O8Ooo

Thursday night is bowling night. Bowling night being, apparently, a chalet tradition, going back _yea unto the nth generation_. Despite Merlin’s protestations of ineptitude, he is dragged along.

Fingering his phone, because Gwaine has missed a couple of calls, Merlin carefully sets it to “loud” so that he hears it even over a noisy crowd. It’s not as if Gwaine had _promised_ to phone every day, but they need to talk, especially now that this--this _thing_ has sprung up between him and Arthur, complicating matters. It’s not clear what the implications are, and he really needs to chat to someone who’s outside the whole situation. Plus he wants to find out more about Val.

A gnawing anxiety clutches at his stomach. He’s got in way too deep, he thinks, tamping down a rising tide of panic. Arthur’s been so open with him, so honest, and he’s not returned the favour at all, and now he thinks he couldn’t bear it if Arthur found out. He’s got to tell him, but he doesn’t know how.

He needs a strong drink, and he needs it now.

“Embarrassing myself in public is something I excel at!” he moans to Morgana while they’re at the bar. “I bet you’re all brilliant at bowling. Last time I went bowling I broke nine glasses. Nine! People were saying I might as well smash one more for the spare.”

“Don’t be such a baby,” says Morgana. Her eyes dart about restlessly until they settle on Gwen, who is talking animatedly with the gorgeous Cenred, and a minute frown line appears between her eyes.

Grimacing in sympathy, Merlin touches her on the arm.  

Noticing his scrutiny, she turns to him and pulls a face. “It’ll end in tears, it always does,” she says. “And then muggins here will pick up the pieces, as usual.”

Nodding his understanding, he lifts up a glass containing about ten varieties of fruit and a tiny amount of extremely potent liquid. “Sláinte!” he says.

Picking up her identical glass, she taps his with it so that there is a faint clink.“Sláinte Mhaith!”

While they’re talking he’s noticed Arthur join Gwen and Cenred, cracking his knuckles and looking like a shit-hot bowler. So distracted is he, by the sight of Arthur bending to fasten his bowling shoe laces, a sight that makes his heart race and his breathing quicken, that he’s completely off guard when she leans forward and, picking a piece of fluff of his shoulder, whispers in his ear.

“I’m happy for you Merlin, I really am, but if you hurt him, I’ll have your balls.”  

It shouldn’t be possible to stalk away when wearing bowling shoes, but somehow Morgana manages it.

If he ever introduces her to his mother, he thinks the universe might implode under the gravity of all that female badassedness gathered together in one place.

ooO8O8Ooo

Ignoring the hoots of laughter as his final ball hurtles straight into the gutter, leaving ten pins standing accusingly at the end of the alley, Merlin is actually pretty content with how things have been going. One of these days, he’ll actually get a bowling score that’s in triple figures, but at least he’s beating his previous high score of 39.

“You’re throwing like a girl,” crows Val, sitting in a triumphant second place, as he socks his remaining pins down in yet another spare. Arthur, of course, Mr. Competitive, is way out in front, and Gwen’s nipping at Val’s heels. Morgana sips her cocktail, green eyes trained on Merlin like an assassin.

“On average, I get a strike every time,” Merlin retorts.

“How the chuff do you figure that one out?” says Val.

“One to the left gutter, one to the right gutter,” says Merlin, settling back down on the bench, wedged in between Morgana and Arthur. “On average they go straight down the middle.”

“That depends on whether you are talking about mean, median or mode,” says Morgana, examining her elegant fingernails.

“Bloody smartarse,” says Val. “Who wants another pint?”

“Nah,” says Arthur, yawning and stretching, so that Merlin can feel his muscles rippling under his t-shirt. “I’ve got an early start tomorrow.”

“So’ve I, you big girl’s blouse,” says Val. “Up at the crack of dawn for t’ helicopter. Life’s a bitch, eh.”

“If you’re taking out a helicopter party you should probably tone down your drinking a bit,” says Arthur. “You know the resort regulations about being pissed up on the job.”

“All right, Arthur bloody uptight Pendragon, who do you think you are anyway? You’re not my boss. Anyway I know what you’re doing, you’re just trying to wriggle out of buying the next round. Tighter than a gnat’s chuff, you are. Bloody scrooge.”

Arthur leans forward and waggles an accusing finger in Val’s face.

“I’m just trying to save you from having a tragic accident, Val, you pathetic knobhead.” Leaning back again, he swirls the last few dregs of his pint around and swallows them.

“Fuck off, I know what I’m doing. I tell you what this resort needs: fewer regulations, and more freedom. That’s what the punters want. All these bloody rules - it’s bloody health and safety gone mad.”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Val, change the bloody record,” says Morgana.

From where Merlin’s sitting, wedged between Morgana and Arthur, he can see Gwen start her backswing, and wills her to sink all the pins just to piss Val off. He leaps to his feet, roaring his approval when she turns and punches the air after another strike, and then he sinks back into his narrow perch.

When his mobile starts to buzz in his pocket, Morgana, who can evidently feel it through their clothes, nudges him with a sharp elbow.

“You’d better get that, lover boy. I expect it’s your *boyfriend*,” she says, eyes narrowing.

He looks at the screen: it’s Gwaine at last. “Excuse me,” he says, apologetically, “I’d better take this.” Ignoring the way that Arthur’s eyes seem to go cold and flat when he rises, he steps outside to take the call.

ooO8O8Ooo

“What do you mean she’s coming?”

“I mean it, mate. We’re both coming actually. She wants to have dinner with you. And check out this boy you’ve been shagging.”

“You told her that? Gwaine!” Merlin sighs. The last thing he needs is his mother checking up on him. “Look, it’s fine. I know I wasn’t meant to get involved with any of my co-workers, but actually it would look odd if I didn’t, given the way that everyone’s copping off left, right and centre. And anyway Arthur’s just--well, I don’t know how to put it, really, I’ve not experienced anything like this before.”

“Bloody hell, Merlin, don’t tell me you’ve gone and fallen in love. You’ve only been there a week! She’s definitely going to want to meet him now - especially after all the glowing reports you’ve been giving me about his prowess on the half-pipes, and with the kids. And the storytelling and all that. Sounds like you’ve met some sort of a paragon, there.”

Pinching the bridge of his nose, Merlin hunches his shoulders against the cold and sighs, because actually that’s not far from the truth. He can feel all his secrets threaten to burst out of him whenever he sees Arthur, and maybe that wouldn’t be such a bad thing. He’ll talk it over with his mum, when she comes.

“Look, Gwaine, I’ll have dinner with her, it’ll be lovely to catch up, but don’t you think it’ll give the game away, rather?”

“Nah. You’ll be all right. No-one’ll connect the dots. Do you want a word with her now?”

“Yeah, all right.”

“Okay mate. I’ll call you back later to find out how it went.”

“No! Don’t you dare! They all think you’re my boyfriend.”

Gwaine’s lewd cackle crackles at him down the phone. “Do they now? They’ll be gobsmacked when they find out the truth about me then, won’t they?”

Ending the call with a shudder, and remembering the twin pair of icy Pendragon glares that followed him out of the bowling alley, Merlin thinks he’d better come clean about Gwaine sooner, rather than later.

ooO8O8Ooo

Back at the chalet, another bottle of vodka bites the dust while they settle down to a game of “truth or dare”. Val shuffles off to bed, bad-tempered after being beaten at bowling by Gwen, muttering about helicopters and health and safety. Meanwhile Gwen chatters and bustles about, lighting candles and turning off the electric strip light for the game, and Morgana fetches some ice and some shot glasses from the kitchen.

Annoyingly, one of the girls from Gwen’s ski-host group has latched on to them, having heard the Pendragon name, and presumably worked out that sooner or later Arthur’ll be bestowed with the Pendragon millions. So, while Cenred dribbles into Gwen’s ear, Sophia sits on top of Arthur lapping at his neck. Glaring pointedly at Merlin, Arthur slips his hand under her blouse; Merlin thinks he’ll need a crowbar to prise her off. Despite the fact that he knows that Arthur’s punishing him for the whole Gwaine business, Merlin’s got a tight, ugly claw of jealousy gnawing at his stomach, and he thinks he might be sick when Sophia starts running her hands through Arthur’s silky blond hair.

He tries to exchange sympathetic glances with Morgana, but she’s still scowling at him.

“It’s your turn first, Merlin,” she says, pinioning him with wide, disingenuous green eyes. “Truth or dare?”

He gulps. “Truth,” he says firmly.

Morgana’s smirk would be terrifying, if he didn’t have a pretty good idea about what she was going to ask.

“Who is Gwaine, and what does he mean to you?” she says.

“That’s two questions. But all right. I’ll answer them both. Gwaine’s--erm, well to put it delicately,” he swigs his vodka and sends a silent apology to his mum, “He’s erm--he’s my mother’s--I suppose you’d call him her boyfriend, but he’s also one of my best mates. So he’s about our age, I suppose, a little older, and erm, i suppose that makes him her--erm. Toyboy.”

Silence greets this bombshell, and he fills the void with more gabbling.

“Well, I mean to say, it’s OK, because my mum’s amazing. And she deserves some happiness.” Despite her habit of putting me into awkward situations like this one, he doesn’t say. “After my Dad--well, anyway. And Gwaine seems to make her happy. So that’s good. I mean, I’m pleased for them. I mean, it was a bit tricky at first, when I caught them that time--anyway, the least said about that the better, haha.”

Aware that everyone’s staring at him, open-mouthed, he stops speaking. “What?”

“Your mother.” Arthur’s voice sounds disbelieving, mocking. “Your mother. Has a toy boy. Called Gwaine.” He starts to laugh. “Oh that just takes the biscuit,that does. A toy boy! Merlin, if you didn’t exist, we’d have to make you up.”

The glass falls out of Arthur’s hand, spilling vodka all down Sophia’s back so that she squeals, and Arthur, all apologetic, has to get up and bring her a cloth, which he pointedly does not use to mop her with. Finally, and much to Merlin’s relief, Arthur actually smiles at him.

The slight softening of the steely glare that Morgana has been shooting his way all night is a less dramatic thawing of the ice, but nevertheless he’s grateful, he’ll take it.

“So do you have a boyfriend, then?” says Gwen as she gets up to fetch the vodka bottle.

“What? No! Most definitely not. I’m single! And that’s a third question! This isn’t truth or dare, it’s interrogate Merlin evening.”

An appraising look creeps across Morgana’s face.

“So why do you have to speak to Gwaine every day, then?” she says. Oh dear Lord. This is going too far.

“Oh no!” he says, holding up a hand as if to defend himself. “I’ve answered both questions--all three, if you count Gwen’s--and that’s it! I’m not answering any more!”

“Oh no,” Morgana echoes, taking the bottle from Gwen and topping up his glass. “That most definitely is not _it_. I accuse you of lying. You have to take a drink.”

“But I’m not lying! I can prove it!”

“Leave him alone, Morgana,” says Arthur. He’s moved away from Sophia now and takes the drink out of Merlin’s nerveless fingers. “Look at him, he’s barely able to breathe, let alone speak.” And he’s absolutely right, Merlin’s pulse is racing and he’s beginning to hyperventilate, although that might be more to do with Arthur’s proximity than anything else.

He really is not cut out for this sort of thing.

Arthur puts Merlin’s glass down and pats him on the shoulder, buoying him up with his strength. Leaning into his touch, with enormous gratitude threatening to make his heart erupt in rainbows, Merlin suddenly realises that he loves Arthur to distraction and would follow him to the ends of the earth.

“I agree,” says Cenred, who has inched a little closer to Sophia and is now swirling the cloth in circles over her patently unsoiled cleavage while Gwen looks on, face suddenly blank. “I think it’s the lovely Sophia’s turn now. Truth or dare, Sophia?”

“Dare,” she says, giggling and slapping his hand.

He smirks at her. “I dare you to kiss the person to your left.” Which is Cenred.

“All right then,” she says, assessing him with a candid look, and smiling as if she likes what she sees. Eyes fluttering closed, she dips in and presses her lips to his.

As if suddenly awakened from a trance, Morgana stands, claps her hands, and switches on the electric light, making everyone blink.

“Time to go, people!” she says, brightly, pulling Sophia to her feet, ushering her towards the door, and glaring pointedly at Arthur all the while.

“What? But we only just started--” says Cenred.

Arthur thrusts Cenred’s jacket into his arms and starts propelling him in the same direction. “I find it’s usually best to just do whatever she says,” he says.

Over by the kitchen, Gwen’s gaping like a fish, tragic eyes fixed on the delectable Cenred as he exits the room, the chalet and, presumably, her shattered dreams, and Merlin steps in quickly to remove the vodka bottle from her hand before anything untoward happens to it.

“Come on, Gwen,” he says gently. “Evening’s over.”

And then Morgana comes back, wearing a tender expression he’s never seen on her face before, as she wraps a warm arm around Gwen and hands her a tissue to hide the way that her face crumbles.

“I thought he was the one,” Gwen chokes, blowing her nose.

“There, there,” Morgana soothes. “I know. I know.”

“Why do I always fall for the bastards?” She buries her face into Morgana’s shoulder. “I’m never going to find Mr. Right. I just want someone to love me!”

Exchanging a look with Merlin, Morgana gently smoothes Gwen’s unruly curls.  

“It’s all right, Gwen,” she says. “I’ll take care of you.”

“I know, I know. Whatever would I do without you?” says Gwen, voice muffled and shaky. “I just want to find someone who will love me. Is it too much to ask?”

“Plenty of people love you, Gwen,” says Morgana, her eyes glinting in the harsh electric light, daring Merlin to say anything.

ooO8O8Ooo

Merlin’s in his bed, and Arthur is in his, and there seems to be something deeply wrong with this arrangement, but for the life of him Merlin can’t work out how to fix it. Sooner or later one of them is going to have to initiate a conversation, he realises, otherwise nothing will happen, and somehow he doesn’t think he can bear that, not now that he’s felt Arthur’s skin burning against his fingertips, heard him break and fall at Merlin’s touch.

“Did it--” he begins.

“Merlin, I--” says Arthur from the other side of the room at the same time.

And that’s all they need; they’re both bursting into laughter, still a little giddy from the vodka. Merlin stumbles out of his bed, duvet bunching around his ankles and tripping him so that he ends up on the floor in the middle of the room, and Arthur bumbles into him, somehow ending up sitting on Merlin’s legs.

With a long moan, Merlin takes the opportunity to drag Arthur down until he’s lined up on top of Merlin, and suddenly this is real, and urgent, and they’re tangled together on the floor in a mess of needy limbs and desperate kisses.

“Thought you’d got someone waiting for you at home, nearly drove me mad with jealousy,” says Arthur in a growl, peeling Merlin’s pyjamas away and swooping down to nip and suck at his hipbones.

“You just had to ask, you know,” gasps Merlin, and God, Arthur’s hair is so soft under his fingers, and it’s got a heady smell, honey mixed with something intrinsically male, how can a smell make him want to explode from desire?

“Fuck. You’re such a skinny thing. Don’t know what I see in you. Can’t keep my hands off you, what have you done to me?” He chooses to demonstrate this point by scooting his palms round Merlin’s hips and digging his fingers into the swell of his arse, squeezing it, kneading it, and groaning. “This arse, I want it. I don’t want anyone else to have it.”

Arthur’s mouth is doing something to Merlin’s nipples that sends spikes of longing shooting down to his groin. “Fuck. God. Do that again. Oh.”

“Bossy,” growls Arthur, his voice rumbling in Merlin’s rib cage. But he does as he’s been asked, again and again, and Merlin bucks and arches off the floor with the sheer animal pleasure of it, his toes curling and slithering on the bare wood.

“God, Merlin, do you have any idea how you look, how you sound?” Arthur’s playing him like a violin, and his voice sings to him with its stutters and its hisses as he works his way down Merlin’s body, hands skittering to the side to grab the fallen bedclothes. “These noises, Merlin, they’re mine, I don’t want anyone else to have them. It’s all for me.”

“Greedy,” gasps Merlin.

“Do you agree?” says Arthur.

When finally Merlin’s shaft is engulfed in wet heat, its sweetness drags a long, high syllable from him.

“Yes!” he manages to say, sparks erupting behind his eyeballs. “Yes, oh God, yes.”

“Want to fuck you, Merlin,” says Arthur.

And that’s it, he can’t hold back any longer, Arthur’s mouth, so good, so sweet on him, so moist and hot, sucks his climax from him. “Arthur!” he says brokenly, “I can’t… Arthur!”

Humiliated, he flops back onto the floor, cheeks reddening, but Arthur’s laughter is not mocking. It is almost tender. “Come here, idiot,” he says. “We’ve got five months to get this right, we’re not going to manage it all on day one.”

“Day two,” Merlin can’t help correcting him. “Three if you count watching me wanking in the shower.”

Arthur’s chuckles intensify. “Touche,” he says, picking up Merlin’s limp arm and rubbing Merlin’s hand gently against his still hard shaft. “Now come on. Fair’s fair.”

Merlin’s fingers curl gently round Arthur’s cock, slowly teasing it where it bobs, sticky against his skinny chest, and the soft moan that this tugs from Arthur’s mouth is like opium.

He’s an Arthur addict, and he never wants to stop.  

Early the next morning, grey dawn washing across the skylight, he bends gratefully over Arthur’s bed, and Arthur’s heavy prick nudges against his lube-slick furl, anxious to be granted entry. He gives leave willingly, and the pillow muffles his cries when his body rides the rising tide and crashes against the shore in inexorable waves.

ooO8O8Ooo

He’s sure he left his watch on the sink. It was one that his mum gave him, on his 21st birthday, and it’s engraved with his name. Tears prick his eyes at his loss, and, frowning, he brushes them away.

Why would someone do this? It’s obviously of more value to him that it is to the thief.

When he comes out of the bathroom, and pads back towards his bedroom, he pauses. Val is sitting in the living space, gazing straight up at him, and as their eyes lock, Merlin sees Val’s face erupt into wreaths of sly smiles.

And obviously Merlin has options - he doesn’t have to tolerate this sort of shit, he can bring one of any number of powers to bear to bring this man to justice and get his watch back, but to do so risks blowing his cover, so he just keeps quiet for now.

But he won’t keep quiet forever. Val had better watch his back.

ooO8O8Ooo

A buzz of excitement thrills through the resort a few days later. Gwen seems to have bounced right back from her heartbreak as she relays the news to the rest of them over pasta at lunchtime.

“It seems that Honeysuckle Rose has jetted in from the Bahamas today, to have a look round,” she says, excitedly. “Leon says that she’s looking for people to help her move the resort into the 21st century and make it attractive to more high-end visitors.” Leon’s the head ski-coach, whose serious and calm outward appearance hides a wicked sense of humour and a scandalous ear for gossip. “I’m hoping to impress her!”

Merlin can’t help smiling at her infectious enthusiasm. “You just have to be yourself, Gwen,” he says, “that’s enough to impress anybody.”

“You’re just a great big sweetiepie, Merlin, aren’t you,” she says, wrapping him up in a big, wholehearted hug, which he returns with a smile.

“Honeysuckle Rose? Let’s hope Val doesn’t let the side down,” says Arthur, frowning. “I hope the first thing she sees isn’t old Val the twat with a tour-party of unhelmeted helicopter downhillers. I wonder what she’s really looking for?”

“Who knows?” says Merlin, casting about for things to say.

The others discuss the resort’s owner, the mysterious Honeysuckle Rose for a little while, and it transpires that none of them has even met her yet.

“Leon interviewed me,” says Gwen. “I don’t think it’s her real name. It’s a song, an old Fats Waller number.” She sings a snatch of it. “ _When I'm taking sips...from your tasty lips...Seems the honey fairly drips..You're confection.....goodness knows...Honeysuckle rose._ ”

Morgana seems struck dumb for a second.

To distract attention from the way that Morgana is staring at Gwen’s lips, Merlin changes the subject again, shrugging and saying, “Anyone want another coke? I’m still thirsty.”

“Nah,” says Arthur, yawning and stretching so that Merlin can see a pink strip of skin between his ski-jacket and his boarding trousers. “I’ll be pissing all afternoon if I have any more.”

“Too much information, little brother,” says Morgana, seemingly recovered. Arthur gets up and wanders out, returning to his boarding group.

Looking at her watch, Gwen leaps to her feet as well. “Right, got to go, too, guys. I promised I’d meet my group at Aithusa’s for a hot chocolate.” She’s just been dumped by her latest squeeze, Lancelot, who is in her ski-host group, but has bounced back as usual.

“Do you want me to come?” says Morgana, concern writ large on her face, and Merlin really doesn’t understand why Gwen hasn’t worked it out yet.

“No, no,” says Gwen, blithely. “It’s all fine. I’m better off without him, right? Anyway, he snores. And he doesn’t wear fresh underpants every day. He just turns the old ones inside out.”

“Yuck!” says Morgana. “He doesn’t deserve you. You’re definitely well shot of him. Bye lovely!”

“Bye, my love!” says Gwen, waving, blowing Morgana a kiss, and clumping out of the chalet in her ski boots.

Mouth open, Merlin turns a questioning eyebrow to Morgana. “Is she always…?”

Morgana nods. “Happens nearly every week. Honestly, it drives me absolutely bonkers. It’s always the same - she throws herself at some low-life, she’s all sparkly eyes and optimism, and then she crashes and burns. And then, the next day, she’s completely unphased. It would be funny if it wasn’t so tragic.”

Nodding, Merlin doesn’t mention the real tragedy; Gwen’s obliviousness to Morgana’s obvious crush. Instead he just puts his hand over hers across the table and gives her a wan smile, to signal his understanding, which she returns. There’s not a lot else to be done, after all.

ooO8O8Ooo

He’s been waiting for half an hour in the Dragonholm Grill, wearing the only good suit he’s brought with him, and nervously sipping at his beer, trying to make it last, when finally his mother turns up.

As usual, she is immaculately turned out. Smiling warmly, accompanied by a subtle scent of Chanel, and by Gwaine, she presses first one powdered cheek to his, and then the other.

“Smooshes, Merlin, dear,” she says. “I can’t kiss you properly, you’d be all over lipstick in a second. Look at you, dear, I swear you’ve grown two inches since I saw you last. Are you eating properly? You look terribly thin.” She fiddles with his collar and fusses around his jacket.

“Mum! I’m not ten year old any more, you know!” Although somehow he still has the knack to make him feel as if he is. “I can look after myself, now!”

“Well it’s true. You should eat more. Are you having breakfasts? It’s the most important meal of the day, you know.” Fussing at his tie, she frowns at him. “Is that a love bite, Merlin? Don’t tell me your new boy is a vampire. And I do hope you’ve been careful, dear. One hears all sorts of stories.”

“Mum!” He fights to stop the flush from creeping up his neck and blossoming forth across his face, and fails.

“Is he a nice boy? I do live in hope that you’ll settle down one of these days. Is that too much to ask? And stop rolling your eyes like that, it’s most unbecoming and you’ll give yourself a headache.”

“Mum!” His voice reduces to a squeak.

“There, now Merlin, no need to get all upset, dear. Now, where did I put my powder compact?” She clicks her fingers and beckons. “Gwaine dear, pass me my bag.”

Her hand plunges into her voluminous bag and emerges clutching several expensive-looking cosmetic items and a packet of ribbed condoms. “Oops! Gwaine, dear, would you please pick those up? We ran out last night so I thought I’d top up our supply.” Winking at him and withdrawing a pair of handcuffs, she adds, in a stage whisper, “Don’t drink too much wine!”

“Too much information, mum!” Merlin claps his fingers melodramatically over his ears, to no avail, because she just shouts more loudly, heightening his humiliation.

“Merlin stop being such a prude! Your generation always thinks you invented sex. Now, call the waiter while I pop to the loo.” She swishes out in a cloud of delicate perfume and sensible shoes.

Gwaine and Merlin exchange a long-suffering look.

“How’s she been?” says Merlin, pulling out a chair and settling into it with a sigh.

“Well, you know, the usual. Terrifying one minute, charming the next,” says Gwaine, with a mock-glum expression on his face that doesn’t fool Merlin for one second. “I don’t know whether I’m coming or going with her. Life’s never dull, I can tell you that for nothing.”

This confession elicits a short bark of laughter from Merlin, who remembers Gwaine’s bachelor exploits, and is torn between being horrified at the way that his mother over-shares about her relationship, and delighted that she is keeping Gwaine on his toes.

“I’ve been looking into that Val bloke,” Gwaine adds. “Got some more gen on him. Seems he was dishonourably discharged from the army for dishonesty, but he did win a medal for bravery as well. Curiously conflicted character. Got a few snippets you might find interesting. Oh, and some end-quarter accounts as well.”

He slides some papers across the table. Merlin examines them carefully for a few moments, signs a couple, and, nodding, slides them back.

“Anyway, how’s it going in the Love Shack?” says Gwaine, having dubbed the chalet where Merlin’s staying thus. “I can see you’ve been getting plenty of action.” To his horror Merlin feels himself blushing under Gwaine’s scrutiny as his gaze dips to Merlin’s collar, which is failing to hide the evidence of Arthur’s predations the previous night.

“Gwaine! Fuck’s sake!”

And that’s not the worst of it, because that is the moment that Morgana chooses to step into the restaurant, with Gwen and Arthur in tow, and she approaches his table with a triumphant expression on her face.

She must be some kind of witch. There’s no way he’s let on where he was going to meet his mum tonight, no way, and yet she’s managed to track him down. Has she planted some kind of GPS tracking system on him?

Prompted by a sudden suspicion, he fishes in his jacket pocket, and pulls out his phone, frowning at the picture of Gwen that appears when he switches it on. Bloody hell. It’s just as he thought. It’s not his phone at all, it’s Morgana’s iPhone. God. She really has. She’s switched their phones, and tracked him with the _Where’s my iPhone_ app. She really, really is a witch.

Her suspicious gaze is falling on Gwaine now, and out of the corner of his eye Merlin can see his mother returning from the loo. Wondering whether it’s too late to run away, he runs a clammy finger under his collar and tries to tamp down the hot blush that’s still blooming across his face.

Although, when he stands to say hello, he’s gratified to see the way that Arthur’s eyes widen, and the way Arthur’s bites his lip while he looks Merlin up and down.

“Ermm,” Merlin says. “Morgana! How lovely to see you. And, erm, well Gwen, Arthur. This is a nice surprise.” His voice when he says Arthur’s name is a rather unmanly squeak, and he coughs to clear his throat of an imaginary frog. “This is Gwaine - erm. And here, gosh here’s my mum. Er. Hunith. Mum, these are my frie--co-workers. Erm. Chalet-mates. Morgana, Gwen, and. Erm. Arthur.”

If there was ever a moment for Kilgarrah’s cave to open up under his feet and swallow him whole, it would be now.

His mum’s speculative gaze flicks back and forth between Arthur and the evidence on Merlin’s neck, and she smiles widely.

Oh no.

“Arthur, dear,” she says, extending a hand for him to kiss. “I’ve heard so much about you.” It shouldn’t be possible for him to blush even more, but he does. “Merlin, dear, you haven’t told me how handsome your... _room-mate_ is.”

“Mum!” He doesn’t miss the eloquent pause before the words “room-mate”, nor the exaggerated way she emphasises them.

“Mrs Ambrose. Or may I call you Hunith?” says Arthur, bending over her hand, instant and impeccable manners betraying his upbringing. “Merlin also failed to tell me how beautiful his mother is.”

“Oh, smooth, dear, very smooth. Oh yes, you’ll do, dear. You’ll do just fine. You must join us for dinner. You must be hungry.”

Hunith’s smile is delighted and warm as she pats his cheek and turns to Morgana and Gwen.

“Oh yes,” says Arthur, turning to Merlin, looking him up and down, eyes finally resting on Merlin’s lips as he speaks in a predatory growl that makes Merlin’s mouth water . “I am very, very hungry.”

ooO8O8Ooo

After all that stress, he’s hoping there’s more vodka left in the Love Shack. He’s been on the mineral waters all evening, wanting to keep his wits about him, and with good reason. To his horror, Morgana and his mother seem to hit it off straight away, and he’s just thanking all the gods that his mum couldn’t find her phone to start showing off all his childhood photos.

They leave mum and Gwaine at the Dragonholm Grill. As they’re leaving, Gwaine flashes something at him; it’s a leopard-skin diamond-encrusted iPhone case, containing Hunith’s memories. Laughing, and blowing Gwaine grateful kisses, Merlin stumbles with his companions back to the Love Shack, breath making curly vapour trails in the cold night air.

Dragonholm looks so cosy and homely at night, like a fairytale cartoon, with its twinkling lights and the lowering peaks that tower above them, pools of black against the starlit sky. It’s silent in the snow; the only sounds are those of crunching ice underfoot, and the occasional giggle when someone slips.

Dawdling, Arthur and Merlin stare up at the panoply of stars.

“I used to think that was a big question mark in the sky,” says Arthur, pointing up to the Big Dipper, his voice loud in Merlin’s ear, making him jump. “Not sure what the question is.”

“How about the answer?” says Merlin.

“They say that cliches are written in the stars,” says Arthur, mouth twitching up in a smirk that makes Merlin beam back at him. “Starstruck, lovestruck fools pen romantic nonsense about them. That’s what the answer always seems to be.”

“Yes, but always in a really generic way,” says Merlin. “I mean, they go on about stars and all that, but they never name specific stars or constellations. Cos it’s not very romantic to go on about kissing by the light of Betelgeuse or Aldebaran, or snuggling under Ursa Major. Plus they’re difficult to rhyme. Think about it. ‘They embraced by the light of the Big Dipper, it made them feel really chipper.’ It’s not a great love song, is it?”

He’s gabbling, he can’t help himself.

“Shut up, Merlin,” says Arthur, voice deepening to a husky growl that grips Merlin’s belly, twisting and curling it with need and anticipation. By a mutual unspoken agreement they stop and face each other, and their faces start to converge, as if drawn by an invisible force. “Have I told you you look delicious in that suit? I have been waiting with great impatience to taste you.”

“Kiss me by the light of the galaxy, then,” says Merlin, smiling.

Reaching for Arthur’s hand, twining Arthur’s unresisting fingers in his own, Merlin can feel his breath, warm and damp on his cheek. Their lips are almost touching, now. If Merlin extends his tongue he’ll be able to taste Arthur, salt mixed with wine, a heady mixture.

Feeling gloved fingers nudge at his free hand, Merlin presses their palms together, and closes the distance so that his lips tentatively brush against Arthur’s mouth, dark in the wan starlight, and at that moment a meteor streaks across the sky like an omen.

“See, you don’t have to speak for magic to happen,” says Arthur.

When Arthur dips in for another kiss, it’s as if another galaxy lights up behind his closed eyelids.

“Just as I thought,” Arthur murmurs into his mouth. “Delicious.”

“Mmmm,” says Merlin, unable to pronounce any other syllables. Sighing, he lets himself drift into this perfect moment, Arthur pressed up against him, their jackets making faint swishing noises where they rub together.

It doesn’t last long though. Girlish squeals of “Get a room!” erupt through the air, and a well-aimed snowball slithers down Arthur’s neck. Arthur sprints off after his sister, who is giggling like a loon as she chases Gwen down the slippery street in her designer apres-ski boots. Chuckling, Merlin follows, tucking the sweet memory of that lingering kiss behind his ribs as he goes.

Catching Morgana without difficulty, Arthur begins to pelt her with slushy missiles, while she squawks and begs for mercy, protecting her face with her hands. It’s how he imagines Arthur conducting a military campaign - methodical, detached, precise. But Gwen fights Arthur off, and she fights dirty, plunging handfuls of snow down his back until his back arches and he turns on her instead. Struck by a sudden thought, Merlin fishes in his pocket and snaps a picture of the mayhem with his phone.

“Hey, let’s make snowmen!” he says.

They all stop what they’re doing and exchange delighted looks.

“Oooh! Yes, let’s!” says Gwen, clapping her hands together.

It’s just the distraction they all need, and they set to work with much giggling and cackling, and the occasional manly guffaw.

Gwen’s face, when she finally turns round and sees what Arthur’s snowman is doing to Merlin’s with a carrot, literally makes Merlin cry with laughter.

ooO8O8Ooo

Still breathless and pink with exhilaration when they get back inside, Arthur’s insistent on removing Merlin’s outer clothes for him.

“This jacket, Merlin,” he growls, tugging at Merlin’s zip. “It’s the colour of poo. It has to go.” He fumbles ineptly until Merlin sighs and helps him to pull it down.

“Have you been drinking, Arthur?”

“Shut up Merlin.” A dark pink tongue darts out to lick wine-stained lips. “This tea-towel--”

“Keffiyeh.”

“Whatever. It’s a disgrace.”

“I put it there to hide the marks some prat made on my neck, from my poor, sainted mother,” says Merlin, trying to ignore the way that Arthur’s tongue paints hot-and-cold circles on his earlobe, and then giving in to the urge to shiver and draw up his shoulders.

“That suit, on the other hand. That suit speaks to me. Unwrap and defile this body, it says.” Arthur’s voice is a low, sinful growl that goes straight to Merlin’s groin.

Morgana appears at Arthur’s elbow. “For heaven’s sake, put him down, little brother,” she says. “Or at least take him up to your room. I have no desire to watch you mauling him.”

“That’s the best idea you’ve had all day, Morgana. I’m going to take him upstairs and spank his pert little rump.”

“Too much information!” she says.

ooO8O8Ooo

Overtaken by a sudden annoying sense of responsibility, they’ve destroyed the adult themed snowmen and left Gwen’s more modest affair standing. It’s still there in the morning, when they go out on the deck for their breakfast, ignoring Val’s grumpy exit from the Love Shack. When Gwen sets out to decorate it with a scarf and hat, Merlin scuttles inside.

“Wait a second!” he says. When he emerges with his phone Gwen laughs, patting down the snowman.

“Look, Leon’s smiling at you,” she says while Merlin takes a picture.

Merlin nearly spits out his tea. “You called the snowman Leon!”

“Of course.” She presses a kiss to Leon’s icy cheek. “They look so alike!”

Morgana steals the phone from Merlin’s hand and takes photos of him with his tea, and of Arthur posing with his Dragonholm snowboard, so of course Merlin wrestles the phone back off her.

“If you take a picture of me wearing this old jacket I’ll definitely throw a snowball at you,” she threatens, so in the end he winds up photographing her, snowball and all.

 

 

“Give me that!” she squeaks. “I forbid you to upload that to Facebook. You will delete that now, Merlin Ambrose, or I’ll tickle you until you cry for mercy!”

“You’ll have to catch me first,” he says, laughing and running off.

ooO8O8Ooo

He’s sitting in the window seat of Kilgarrah’s Cafe, wondering what time it is and licking hot chocolate from his lips, when he decides to broach a delicate subject.

“So - have any of you found any of your stuff missing?”

Three pairs of eyes instantly snap to his.

“What kind of stuff?” says Morgana.

He shrugs. “Personal items - you know. My iPod. My watch.”

Gwen’s mouth drops open. “You’re kidding. I lost my purse the other day. When I found it there was 50 quid missing. I thought I must have spent it.”

“I’ve lost my Arsenal scarf,” says Arthur. “I just assumed I had left it up at one of the changing areas.”

“My necklace is missing,” says Morgana.

“It’s Val,” says Arthur quietly, stirring his drink. “He’s done this kind of thing before.”

“And yet you still share a chalet with him?” says Merlin, puzzled.

Arthur nods. He sighs and stands. “There aren’t any other employees in Dragonholm who’ll share with him. But he was in Helmand too.” He looks Merlin squarely in the eye. “You don’t have to share a chalet with him if you don’t want to. But I will.”

The stiff set of Arthur’s shoulders as he leaves the cafe speaks volumes.

ooO8O8Ooo

It’s nearly lunchtime, and he’s finishing up with his group, sorting out certificates and hi-fiving the kids, when he spots Val showing off, speeding down the black run without his helmet on, with a train of helmetless tourists in his wake. Heart in his mouth, he watches as one of them turns awkwardly, spins, loses her balance, and starts to hurtle down the piste, arms and legs flailing, until she comes to a rest at the bottom, skis and poles askew.

He takes off on his skis towards the group who are converging on the fallen skier like flies.

Thankfully, when he gets there she’s sitting up and joking about her wipe-out, cheeks stained pink. He exchanges a look with Morgana, who’s also just returned from her ski-tour, and has seen the whole thing.

She skims effortlessly over the icy ground towards him, despite it being slightly uphill.

“Merlin, you have to do something about him.”

“Me? What makes you think I can do anything?”

“Oh, please,” she says, giving him that icy Pendragon glare that makes him feel two inches tall. “Don’t give me that crap. I’ve worked out what you’re hiding, Merlin. Did you think I was stupid? There is such a thing as the internet, you know. And I’m telling you that you need to sort this shit out with Val, or it’ll all come crashing down around your ears, and your precious mother’s.”

He catches her arm as she starts to turn away.

“Please don’t tell Arthur,” he says. “Not yet. I am going to tell him, but there are one or two things I need to sort out first. Please let it be me that tells him.”

She holds his gaze for a second or two, long enough to feel like her green eyes are boring into his soul and finding him unworthy, before nodding her agreement.

“I’m doing this because I like you, Merlin, and I like your mum. You’ve got a week,” she says. “And then I’m going to tell him myself.”

ooO8O8Ooo

Things come to a head sooner than he’s expecting.

He’s just opening the door into the Love Shack, wondering how to broach the subject, when he hears the sound of raised voices: Arthur and Val, having a humdinger of an argument.

When Merlin enters the room, Val’s got his back to him, and Arthur’s squaring up to him, hand at his collar, face contorted in rage. Neither man pays Merlin the slightest bit of attention.

“I’ve had enough of your fucking shit!” Arthur’s yelling, mouth inches from Val’s face, vein standing out on his temple. “I stand up for you again and again, and you pull this sort of fuckwittedness out of the bag, every fucking time Val. I’ve bloody well had it up to here. You could have killed that girl, Val.” His free hand comes up to poke Val hard in the chest.

“It’s not my fault if customers choose--”

“You could insist on helmets. Resort policy is to insist on helmets. You should be setting a good example. It would have been your fucking fault if she’d died, and you know it.” His voice turns low, and menacing. “She’s got two kids, you know. A boy and a girl. Would you be the one to explain to her little boy why her mum won’t be home to pick him up from daycare? Would you hold his hand while he cries so hard that he vomits because his mum’s never coming home? Hmm?” Arthur’s voice is shaking with some emotion that Merlin can’t fathom.

“It’s none of your chuffing business how I conduct my ski tours!” yells Val, equally furious. “I’ve never lost a customer yet, and I never will.”

Arthur steps towards him and pushes him, hard, both hands on Val’s chest.

“No you won’t. Because you’re going to be fired.”

“What?”

“I reported you, this morning.”

“You’re a fucking grass. I knew it. I bet it was you who grassed me up in Helmand and all.”

There’s a brief silence, pregnant with confirmation.

“It was you. I knew it. Fuck, I saved your frigging life, Pendragon, you worthless piece of shit.”

“I reported the truth!” Arthur’s vehemence makes him sound hoarse. “I reported your bravery, your courage under fire, and your persistence, which is why you got the medal. But I could not let your dishonesty slide, nor your recklessness! If you hadn’t been disobeying orders we would never have got into that mess in the first place. You—“

“Fucking grass! I’ll kill you, you ruined my career then, and you’re ruining it again now!”

“For fuck’s sake, grow up,” yells Arthur. His face is still livid, jaw tight. “It’s about time you stopped blaming others for your failures, Val. You were a Sergeant! You weren’t just a rookie Private, there were people depending on you, you can’t just ignore orders when it suits you—”

“Fuck you!” Val screams.

Before Merlin can realize what’s happening, Val stoops, hand closing round a nearly empty vodka bottle. Smashing it with a quick gesture, he steps forward, brandishing the evil-looking shard at Arthur, who backs away, eyes widening, a protective hand held out in front of him. A sharp, acrid tang of alcohol pervades the air.

“You think you’re so fucking superior, don’t you, you bloody poof, Pendragon, you and your chuffin’ fuckbuddy, Houdini,” he says. “Well you’re not such a big man, now, eh, are you? Eh? Eh?” He swipes the makeshift weapon towards Arthur, laughing mockingly as Arthur springs back.

“Val, put that down,” says Arthur, reaching forwards. From where Merlin’s standing, in the shadow of the doorway, he can see Arthur’s Adam’s apple bob as he swallows. “This won’t solve anything.”

They’re facing one another, panting, and Val’s holding the jagged bottle away from him, feinting towards Arthur with it.

Creeping slowly towards him from behind, Merlin’s sure Val can’t see him. He holds his breath, tries to still his thudding heart. There’s no way he’d overcome Val in a fair fight, so he’s going to have to rely on surprise.

But then Arthur spots him, and yells out a warning.

“Merlin, no!”

Val starts to turn towards him, and bang goes the element of surprise, so he just grabs Val’s wrist and pulls and twists it as quickly as he can, high up behind his back until he cries out and releases the broken bottle. Merlin grabs it triumphantly with his free hand and chucks into the corner. It slices into his fingers, but he manages to send it jangling and skittering under the table.

“Merlin!”

Hearing the second warning shout from Arthur he turns, enquiringly, but he doesn’t see Val’s other hand until it connects with his face, and after that all he sees are sparks, and then nothing.

ooO8O8Ooo

Heads should not hurt this much. How can heads hurt this much? Iron nails should not be drilling angrily through his skull.

Soothing fingers in his hair are nice, the soft flutter of lips touching his cheekbones is better, and the gentle voice whispering in his ear is good, too, so why the pain? He tries to move and agony darts through his skull, making him whimper.

“Merlin, you idiot,” says that voice, and he thinks he should recognise it, because it sounds so familiar, and its tender tones give the lie to the words. Something whispers across his forehead, brushing hair away, and he opens his eyes to see what it is. But when his head tries to follow the movement it hurts, so he stops and lets his eyes flutter closed again.

He can hear another sound in the room, as well; there’s someone saying “my nose, my nose, my chuffing nose,” over and over again, but they must have a blockage in said appendage because it comes out as “by dose, by dose, by chuffin’ dose”. He wishes they’d shut up, it’s a bloody annoying noise.

There’s something warm lined up against his back, and it shifts a little, making a crooning noise.

Arthur. It’s Arthur.

With a minute change in position, Merlin surrenders himself to that warm touch and gradually tunes in to the other sounds that filter through to him. He’s vaguely aware of a sharp pain in his hand.

“Is he waking up?” someone’s saying, and he lets his eyes open, sees an enquiring, handsome face, and then a bright light. Wincing, he presses them shut again.

“There, now, Merlin,” says this vision, “It’s all right. My name’s Percy and I’m a paramedic. You’ve had a blow to the head, and you’re probably feeling a bit woozy and sore, but you’re going to be absolutely fine.”

He starts to drift off again, but can hear a conversation going on in the background with words like “concussion” “keep an eye on him”, “painkillers” and “wake him up every two hours.”

The “by dose by dose” noise has changed now, and he can hear threatening words like “assault” and “chuffing Pendragon”, and that’s when he remembers, and his eyes open properly to take in what’s happening in the room.

“Arthur?” he croaks.

“Merlin! Never do that to me again, you idiot! Of all the ridiculous, foolish, impetuous, stupid, bone-headed, knuckle-brained--” The grumbling stops for a second, and the warm thing at his back shifts again. “Percy, I hope you have a cure for stupidity in that briefcase of yours, because if you have then you need to inject Merlin with it right now. What the hell were you thinking, attacking a bloody squaddie, for God’s sake? Granted he’s a massive twat with shit for brains, but still…”

Merlin tunes out the words, and focuses instead on the way that a hand is gently circling round his hairline, and a strong arm is propping him up.

Percy’s face swims back into focus. “You’ll be alright with Arthur, here, Merlin,” he says. “Just make sure you don’t do anything strenuous for a couple of days.”

“What about my classes?” he tries to whisper, but the words get a bit stuck.

“It’s all right,” says Arthur. “Leon will take your group for the next couple of days.”

Val’s still muttering in the corner, and Merlin can see Percy bending over him, dabbing at his face which is covered in blood.

“Going to have you for assault, Pendragon,” he’s saying. “Breaking my fucking dose—”

“You’ll be all right,” says Percy. “I don’t think it’s broken. It didn’t half bleed a lot, though. Look, if you two have not resolved your differences, maybe you shouldn’t stay in the same chalet tonight.” He bustles about, all efficiency and pressed, starched uniform.

And that’s when Gwen and Morgana come in, and Merlin must be feeling better, because he can practically see the hearts appear in Gwen’s eyes when she spots the bulging muscles that lurk under Percy’s paramedic uniform. He imagines he can see the way that Morgana’s eyes roll, too.

“Hello. Who are you? I don’t think we’ve met. I’m Gwen. Are you just leaving? Must you go?” says Gwen. “Let me get you a cup of tea, first. Oh my goodness.” Her eyes widen as she takes in the state of the rest of the people in the room. “What happened?”

Val struggles to his feet, pointing at the large patch of red that blossoms across his t-shirt. “Fucking Pendragon is a psycho, that’s what. He’s broken my chuffin’ dose! I’m going to do him for assault.”

“Don’t be an idiot, Val. You threatened me, and attacked my boyfriend. I was merely defending us both.” Arthur’s voice is at its most aristocratic.

“Oh yeah?” Val’s mouth rises in an ugly sneer. “Well, it’s your word, and your fuck-buddy’s, against mine. I think we’ll see how that pans out, don’t you?”

Merlin sighs and struggles to sit upright, ignoring Arthur’s protests.

It’s gone way beyond time to open up about his secret.

“I don’t think so,” he says, fumbling for his phone. “Best stay here, Val. There’s something you all need to know.” He types up a message, taking longer than he should because the letters keep swimming in and out of focus. When he’s finished, he sinks back into Arthur’s embrace with a grateful sigh.

“What’s your mum got to do with all this?” Arthur’s puzzled by the message, which is asking his mum to come immediately.

“You’ll see,” says Merlin, closing his eyes.

ooO8O8Ooo

The talent that Hunith has for instantly becoming queen of all that she surveys is one that Merlin has always both admired and resented. But this is one occasion when he’s grateful to it.

No sooner has she stepped through the door than Gwen is fussing over her, making her tea, Morgana is taking her coat. Gwaine slips in almost un-noticed in her wake, nodding at Merlin and settling down near to Val, hand hovering near his pocket. Knowing what’s in the pocket, Merlin allows himself to relax a little.

Val may be a former serviceman but he’s no match for Gwaine.

It’s Percy who provides the biggest surprise.

“Mrs Rose!” he says, bowing and stuttering. “What an absolute honour.”

“It’s lovely to see you again, Percy, dear,” she says in a warm voice, pressing a chaste kiss to his cheek, and Merlin swears he can see the big man’s face colouring at the contact.

Resisting the urge to roll his eyes, because his head is throbbing, and he doesn’t want to make it worse, he manages to croak out “Mum!” instead.

She sinks down beside him, where he lies cradled in Arthur’s arms, and touches his bandage gingerly, snatching her hand away when he winces.

“Oh my poor darling,” she says. Her face is full of concern. “My poor, brave boy. I’m so sorry to have put you in this situation.” Her eyes are brimming with unshed tears. “Will you forgive me?”

Merlin lets out a laugh which is half a sob. “It’s not your fault, mum. I could have said no, couldn’t I?”

But Merlin doesn’t have time to tell her what happened, because Val’s demanding to know who she is, and Arthur’s saying “Why did Percy call you that, Hunith?” and Morgana’s saying something to Gwen, and what with one thing and another his head is aching more than ever.

Hunith raises her hand and they all shut up. In the sudden silence, all he can hear is the rattle of his uneven breathing.

“I should explain,” she says in a quiet voice. “It’s my fault that poor Merlin is here. My name is Hunith Ambrose, and I’m Merlin’s mother.” He can feel her hand cradling his cheek. “But you may know me better as Honeysuckle Rose, the owner of the Dragonholm resort.”

“Honeysuckle Rose is a pseudonym. I knew it!” says Gwen, triumphantly.

Merlin feels Arthur’s sudden intake of breath, can feel the surge of Arthur’s heart thudding as Hunith explains that Merlin is there under cover to work out things that could be improved about the resort, that she got the idea from the “Undercover Boss” television show, and that she was truly sorry about the deception.

Accusing eyes bore into Merlin as she reveals that he’s actually the Chief Financial Officer of Dragonholm Ltd, with a 30% share in the company, and he tries to shrug them off.

“Well, I was never that good a ski instructor, was I?” he says.

“Bloody good liar though,” growls Arthur, shifting slightly, body stiffening.

Great, on top of the way his head feels like it’s going to explode, and his hand is beginning to throb, he now has to contend with a sinking feeling in his stomach.

“I tried to tell you, Arthur,” he says. His throat is so dry, his voice is coming out in a sort of croak, and he thinks he might throw up.  

Smiling, his mother pats him on the cheek. “Don’t be too hard on poor Merlin, Arthur dear,” she says. “He was only trying to please his dragon of a mother.”

Softly, she sighs and embraces Merlin in a warm hug; he closes his eyes and leans gratefully into it, breathing in her comforting scent.  

“And Gwaine?” says Gwen.

Merlin sighs. “He is my mum’s boyfriend, yes,” he says. “He also doubles as her bodyguard, my PA and my best mate.”

“Which is why you talk to him every day,” says Morgana.

“Yeah.” His voice is still all croaky and he swallows.

“I have to leave you, soon, Merlin, love,” Hunith says, “Although I have managed to postpone the board meeting for a few hours, I can’t leave it forever. But I’ll come back later to see how you are. Arthur, please look after him for me. He’s a very dutiful son, and he’s the only one I’ve got.”

Arthur’s face is hidden from him, but Merlin can feel the way his body moves as he nods, can feel the gust of his breath in Merlin’s hair.

Hunith’s expression takes on a cold, purposeful air that makes Merlin shiver. He’s seen that look before, and he know what it portends; he wouldn’t like to be on the receiving end of whatever she does next. Which is to crouch down next to the dumbfounded-looking Val, and whisper something in his ear that makes him flinch visibly, clutch his genitals and turn white.

“No ma’am,” he whispers, respectfully, eyes like saucers, inching away from her.

When she straightens, she smiles sweetly at Gwaine.

“Come along Gwaine, dear,” she says, holding out a hand. Leaping to his feet, he follows her out the room like puppy on a leash.

As soon as she shuts the door, Val lets out a long breath, struggles to his feet and disappears off to his room, turning to Merlin at the door to say,  “Your mum’s a fucking psycho,” except his voice is still adenoidal, and the word “mum” comes out as “bub”.

He slams the door. Behind it they can hear loud muttering and banging noises, as if someone is packing in a hurry.

ooO8O8Ooo

Later, when they’re alone in their room, and Merlin’s medication has stopped the pounding in his head, but made him feel woozy and incoherent, Arthur burrows into the bed next to him and folds him in those warm, strong arms.

“So…” says Arthur, voice low. Merlin’s half asleep, can’t work out what the nuances of Arthur’s speech are. “You’re my boss.”

“Technically,” says Merlin, nuzzling at the place in Arthur’s chest where it dips welcomingly, and closing his eyes, “I’m your boss’s boss’s boss. But let’s not split hairs.”  

Arthur sighs, his arm sliding limply away, so that Merlin feels a sudden chill where it was, and clutches at it, trying to pull it back where it belongs.

Lifting his head, ignoring the sudden flash of pain that brings him, Merlin gazes at Arthur’s dimly lit face. “Is that going to be a problem for you?”

Arthur looks down at him, rucking up the skin under his chin, smiles, and brings his arm back. Gratefully, Merlin latches on to it and clamps it down.

“No,” says Arthur, eventually. “No, I don’t think it will, as long as you don’t abuse your position.”

Smiling to himself, Merlin lets a mischievous hand gently whisper down Arthur’s torso towards the waistband of his pyjama trousers. “Like this, you mean?”

Arthur bats his hand away. “That’s exactly the sort of thing I’m talking about,” he says in a growl that makes his chest vibrate under Merlin’s ear. “It’s definitely contrary to the employee handbook for senior staff to engage in inappropriate relationships with more junior employees, especially with hints of preferment. However...”

Arthur’s hand gently lifts Merlin’s and pushes it back to where it had previously been headed. Merlin lets Arthur drag his hand and forearm across Arthur’s bobbing, half-hard cock, still ensheathed in his night clothes.

“...However,” he continues in a whisper. “There’s nothing to stop the junior employees from engaging in such activity of their own free will.”

When Arthur’s hand wraps around his, curling it so that his fingertips press into the growing bulge in Arthur’s trousers, the groan that this pulls from Arthur makes Merlin’s whole body vibrate, so that his spine tingles with the sensation.

“What about bosses that have head injuries?” His voice is still embarrassingly croaky.

“I think the handbook states that the customary procedure is to tease them until they beg for blow jobs,” says Arthur.

The blunt statement shouldn’t be enough to arouse Merlin like this, shouldn’t be enough to make his breathing stutter, and his heart race, and his prick stand to attention like a bloody cadet saluting his sergeant. And anyway Merlin’s pretty sure that the handbook says nothing of the sort, but he’s not going to mention that, not now when Arthur’s gently lowering Merlin’s head onto the pillow, pulling off the duvet, and massaging Merlin’s cock through his underpants.

“Let me take care of you, _boss_ ,” says Arthur, yanking down Merlin’s pants to his thigh, so that his prick emerges, waving enthusiastically. “Let me lick your gorgeous fat prick and tease it with my lips and tongue.”

“God, yes,” says Merlin. He’s not capable of rational thought, now, anyway, not now that Arthur’s delicious and sinful lips are lapping at his glans, and that filthy tongue is emerging, licking at the diamond bead that emerges from the tip of his cock.

“The patient is eager,” says Arthur, scooting round so that he’s positioned over Merlin’s thighs. “I think that’s a good sign.” That delightful, evil tongue flicks out again, lapping under Merlin’s foreskin and swirling about, until Merlin’s breath is coming in great gasps, his heart galloping. His underpants are still stuck half way up his thighs, so he can’t let his legs fall open as he wants, so he lets his fingers card through Arthur’s silky fine hair instead, and lets out an embarrassing noise half way between a whimper and a grunt.

Frustrated, he starts to flex his hips, and he feels Arthur’s chuckling exhale make him tingle as the warm air gusts across his wet cock-tip.

“Please, Arthur,” he says, trying to keep his hands gentle where they are massaging Arthur’s scalp, guiding Arthur’s head where he wants it to go. “Please, I want it, you tease. Oh Arthur, your mouth. Please!”

Arthur looks up and licks his lips, making everything in Merlin’s belly tighten and clench agonisingly. “What do you want?” he says in a husky voice.

“Suck me, Arthur. Bury your fat fingers in my arse, and suck me. I need it, Arthur. Please!”

“That’s it, baby,” Arthur croons. “So hot for me.”

And that’s it. If Arthur doesn’t stop talking soon, and start sucking him off, he’s going to die of frustration.

“Arthur!”

And then, finally, at long last, just when he thinks he’s going to black out with the unfairness of it all, a sensation of heat engulfs him, gentle and exquisite, and still not enough, and starts to work its way along the length of his shaft until he twists and writhes. Gradually it withdraws again, before sliding along him a little more quickly. He’s gabbling now, and Arthur’s holding his hips down, because he can’t help the tiny jerks that they make, desperately chasing after that tantalising mouth, wanting to claim it.

And that’s when he feels a long, plump finger slide into Arthur’s mouth alongside Merlin’s cock, then another, then another. When they leave, Merlin tenses, because he knows where they are going, he can’t wait to feel it. But Arthur, the bastard, keeps teasing him, slipping moist fingers between the tightly clenched cheeks around his cleft, and pressing one fingertip enquiringly into his furl and then withdrawing until Merlin gasps with the loss of contact.

His breathing is ragged now, and he’s so close, all he needs to push him over the edge is one finger, just one. When at last he feels one strong digit gain entry, seeking inside him, probing his secrets, his orgasm cascades over him in wave upon blinding wave.

He can hear someone gabbling “Oh God, oh God, oh God,” over and over, and after a second or two realises it’s him.

The sight of Arthur, on his knees, straddling Merlin’s still-clad thighs, rampant and rosy-pink, fist flying, until he, too, comes with a cry, his spunk painting patterns on Merlin’s bare chest and chin, is one that Merlin will treasure for the rest of his life.

Later, when he’s clean and drowsy, and Arthur’s snoring into his ear, Merlin’s head’s throbbing a bit, but not unmanageably, and he realises they’re all going to be all right.

Gwen’s going to be the happiest ski host ever when she gets to run a jazz night for the teenagers. Arthur’s going to coach the next Olympic snowboard champion, and charm conference attendees with his amazing storytelling skills. And Morgana will fix all Dragonholm’s organisational problems so that one day they will be able to host the G20 conference. Who knows, maybe she will finally pluck up the courage to tell Gwen what she really feels. Val will fly - as far away from Hunith as possible.     

And Merlin? Well, Merlin can just as well be an accountant here as he can in an office - anything so that he can be close to Arthur.

Smiling to himself, he lets his eyelids droop, soothed by Arthur’s contented snores.

~ The End ~

 


End file.
